


The Not-So-Fluffy Bits

by imanadultiguess



Series: Makeshift Family [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas kink, Cockrings, Discussions of lust and longing, Honeymoon chapter, Jim has wants, Jim has worrisome kinks, M/M, Manipulation, Mariah Carey would be furious, Mentions of anal pentration without lubrication so be warned, Pining, Rape Fantasy, Sexual Violence, Straight Character in a Same Sex Relationship, Vibrators, always use lube okay, gay slur, mentions of past rape, peppermint lubricant, petplay if you squint, seriously, some somewhat dubious consent sex, violent fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-01-20 11:36:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12432003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess
Summary: The less than fluffy bits.  Usually involve sex, angst, and/or violence (or mentions thereof).





	1. Unrequited Lust: Jim wants Basher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim deals with unresolved sexual tension. He also fantasizes about being raped, so maybe skip this chapter if that is an issue for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set before and during Chapters 7 and 8 of A Family Grew Around Me. For those who haven't read it, here's what you need to know. Basher is straight, but worries about Jim's safety. Also Jim has a daughter who Basher loves dearly.

_September 2012_

I can hear him, pacing and searching downstairs. He’s trying to be quiet, but he’s so damnably heavy, there’s only so much the hardwood floors can take before they squeak, the lush.

I can’t sleep with him opening and closing all the cabinets and the door to the pantry. Basher, you’re a fucking idiot, you’ve already checked there _twice_. There wasn’t any alcohol the first time, there wasn’t any the second time, even after you spilt rice all over my nice, clean floor, and there certainly won’t be any this third time around. 

It’s annoying. He’s annoying. Flying half way across the world to “protect” me. 

To make sure we’re okay. 

The panic in his eyes was so . . . _so something_

Who the _hell_ does he think he is? Breaking into _my_ house at some unholy hour? To make sure Evelyn’s safe? Looking disheveled and concerned? 

Like we _meant_ something to him. 

My stomach flips. 

There’s still not any alcohol in the pantry, tiger. There are no alcohol fairies. This isn’t _Harry Potter_. It would do him some him good to get to sleep without the aid of depressants. 

I think he’s settled. I don’t hear him anymore. 

And then I hear his footsteps, heavy and loud and intrusive, just like the rest of him, carrying the bulk of him up the stairs. The hall light flicks on and the bastard is opening my door. 

“Could you--” I start to berate him, but suddenly he’s beside me, crawling beneath my sheets, and my mouth is dry. I reach up to stop him as he leans in closer, and his shirt is gone. My palms and fingers are resting on those deliciously tight pecs, hot and firm and scarred. 

“Maybe you can offer something else to help me sleep?” he grumbles into my ear before pinning my wrists to the headboard. 

“Fuck,” the whispered profanity echoes from the kitchen, and I realize I’ve been dozing. I echo his sentiment, because it was turning into a very nice dream. It’s been a while. A very long while. And having a big, masculine beast of a man interrupt my sleeping patterns, acting as protector--well, I suppose it’s only natural it would awaken those sexual urges. 

I need to sleep. I grab my phone and text him that there is no alcohol in the house, to stop looking. If he really needs something to help him sleep, he can make some of the bedtime tea in the pantry. 

I hear him curse again. He pads back into the living room and flops on the sofa. 

“Make yourself at home, colonel,” I whisper sardonically. 

I roll over onto my side, flipping the pillow to the cool side. I don’t want to sleep though. I want to explore that dream. I want to finish it. Fuck, it doesn’t have to be Basher. It could be anyone, really. And that’s completely, one-hundred percent true. Maybe? 

It would be nice if it were Basher, eh? 

Those lean fingers and rough palms. When I shook his hand that day in London, I was amazed at how unkempt his hands were. Calloused palms and fingertips, uneven nails clipped too short and a firm grip. He’s just the stereotypical heterosexual man, smelling of cheap shampoo from a hotel and some sporty body wash. He doesn’t do anything to his hair, just keeps it short so he doesn’t have to think about it. He has gorgeous arms, and if he’d wear a shirt that fit correctly, they’d look even better. 

And Evelyn loves him. And he loves her. 

I don’t understand the root of these feelings, but whenever someone cares about my daughter, I instantaneously don’t want to kill them. Even the annoying lesbians are immune to my wrath because they love Evelyn and vice versa. 

I can almost imagine the weight of his muscled body pressing mine into the mattress, that wide mouth nipping and sucking at my lips, demanding more. That thick cock penetrating me with no preparation, ripping me apart, making me bleed and scream, even as the head hits my prostate. 

“This will do just fine,” imaginary Basher growls. “No, no, Boss.” He stops me from groping my cock, pinning my wrists to the headboard again. “You come from my cock or not at all.” 

In reality, of course, I’m sliding my fist up and down my erection. I never know when Evelyn might crawl in bed with me, so I have no intention of climaxing, but there’s no reason not to enjoy this. 

“You’ll have to keep quiet, won’t you, Boss? God, you feel amazing, just squirming on my cock, like you have a chance of escaping.” His rough hands grip my neck and squeeze. “Sh, sh, this will help you keep quiet. Especially as I go even deeper.” He bucks deeper inside, shredding the sensitive internal tissue so that it’s difficult to separate the pain of suffocation from the pain of being split open. I’m just one mass of existence, unable to think of anything else except what’s happening to me. 

In reality, I can hear myself whimper. I cover my head with the pillow and bite my lip to keep further sounds from reaching the other two sleeping humans in my house. 

“Easy, boss, easy,” Imaginary Basher breathes against my cheek, lapping at the tears that come from suffocation. “I’m keeping you safe, no charge, checking up on you for free. I think I should get a little something in return, don’t you? A little something to help me relax?” 

And he hits that sweet bundle of nerves over and over again, causing precum to drip from my cock. I cry out but it’s just a hoarse groan that makes my throat burn as he tightens his grip on my airway. Oh my God, this is good, this is what I need. _Bite me, tiger, mark me, ruin me. . ._

No, that’s enough. That’s enough fantasy for tonight. I don’t want to dirty the linens just because I can’t keep my libido at bay. 

I take a deep breath, hold it, then release it slowly. Again. I’ll deal with this tomorrow. I’ll go out and find a proper fuck, none of this masturbating like a teenager at four in the morning nonsense. No weird, icky emotions tied to the physical act of fucking. 

And Basher being here is definitely weird and icky. 

He doesn’t even work for me anymore. 

_“I wanted to make sure you guys were okay.”_ So he flies halfway around the world, going without sleep for twenty-six hours? Because he’s worried about us? 

No, no, don’t get sentimental about his presence. He’s checking on Evelyn, not me. 

A big, bad tiger coming to check on his cub. 

Goddamnit all, why is _that_ arousing? My erection isn’t going away. Shit. I guess I’ll just have to get out of bed and deal with this like a normal person. 

~~

He doesn’t look like Basher, which I should probably consider a plus. I don’t need to get emotionally attached to an ex-employee, even if it’s through a surrogate like this idiot currently humping my face. 

He’s got the broad shoulders though, and the thick arms. He’s not as lean as Basher. I need to stop comparing him to Basher. 

I can’t even remember his name. He’s dull. So dull. It’s hard to focus on the fact that I can’t breathe when he won’t fucking shut the hell up. 

“That’s it, baby boy,” he murmurs above me, “take it all. Choke on my dick.” 

_Like it’s big enough._

I guide his hands to my hair, hoping he’ll get the hint. Instead, he pets me scalp like I’m a dog. Oh my god, this is hell. 

_Focus on the suffocation. Focus on that cock intruding on your throat._

This absolutely pathetic cock. That this idiot keeps _trying_ to choke me with, and pets me like a fucking animal. What a waste of a night out. 

“Show Daddy how much you like it,” he groans above me, hips thrusting at a comically erratic rate. It takes every single ounce of self-control I have not to bite his dick off. 

This is. . . 

This is not what I want. 

_FUCK._

_And imaginary Basher grabs my hair and tugs it back, hard and fast and demanding, pulling me off of his long, thick cock. I look up at him, taking in the image of him, tall and bulky and somehow lean, his wet cock shimmering in the dim lights of the alley, parting the opening of his jeans._

_Towering over me._

Oh, this is much, much better. 

_Bitchslap me. Pin me to the cement with your foot on my face. Slice open my skin with the broken bottles that surround us. Burn me. Punch me. Choke me. Make me feel something, Basher. Anything._

_Imaginary Basher grins viciously, exposing what seems like too many teeth. Those fists, strong from the years of carrying oversized firearms, grip my neck. “Relax, Jim.” He squeezes tighter so that it feels like my head will explode. _YES._ _

__“I’m going to destroy you, pretty boy. You’re gonna go up in flames like the fucking Roman Empire.”_ _

_~~_

__  


I think I got it out of my system. My mind’s buzzing about half as much as usual, so I’ve probably quieted my libido for a bit. After my adventure with Not Basher in the alleyway, I found an actual Dom to handle me.

My wrists ache pleasantly and the welts on my back are screeching against the scratchy material of my shirt. I open the door to my house. And, for fuck’s sake, I can smell him. The den smells like him, like his sleep and his breath and his coffee. It’s faint; there’s a possibility that I’m imagining it. 

He needs to leave. 

I approach the sofa where Basher and Evelyn are curled up, sleeping. A strange, warm feeling rises up over me, like someone wrapping a thick, fleece blanket around my shoulders. I stare. 

Evelyn looks up at me with a mischievous grin. I cross my arms and fire a matching grin back at her. My precious little girl. She sticks her tongue out at me and crosses her eyes. 

“Hey,” I whisper, “Evey, baby, let’s go night-night?” 

“Sh,” she practically shouts back. “Tiga Papa is sleeping.” 

Basher doesn’t even stir. I’m glad. I don’t think I can appropriately process his consciousness right now. Not after tonight.


	2. Halloween Angst and Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basher forgets sometimes that he's supposed to be in love with Jim. And that hurts. 
> 
> And sometimes he remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Chapter 13 of A Family Grew Around Me. For those who haven't read it, here's what you need to know. Basher is straight but is trying to make it work with Jim because he thinks he might love him. Also Jim has a daughter who Basher loves dearly.

_October 2013_

I’m not calling this a relationship; Basher and I are not a “couple.” 

He kisses me. He touches me. He pulls me into his lap for a cuddle. But only after I’ve reminded him that we’re . . . that he made the physical indications that he wanted a relationship. 

You see, I’ve seen him with women, his attraction to them. And “attraction” is very much the accurate descriptor. He encroaches on their spaces, finds ways and reasons to touch their shoulders, the small of their backs, their waists, places little kisses here and there--it’s magnetic. Basher is _drawn_ to them. He can’t keep away from them, can’t keep his hands to himself. He stares at their breasts, their butts, their lips, their eyes. He appreciates every aspect of their forms, even the hideous ones, and his gaze makes it obvious. 

And the women love him in return. They love his arrogant brand of neediness, his uncontrollable desire to touch and own and have, that unbridled masculinity that’s confident and crass and oh-so-charming. 

There is no such thing as “space” between Basher and a woman. 

But there is between us. 

It doesn’t hurt. 

We’re not a couple. 

So why do I find myself reaching out to touch him? 

Because I keep finding excuses to do just that--touch him. My foot grazes against his at the dinner table, or I brush my hand against his as we’re walking Evelyn to the park, or I’ll tap my knee against his while we’re sitting on the sofa. And it’s like he remembers; he remembers that _he_ kissed _me_ , that he made the physical indication that he wanted to be an “item,” even if we haven’t discussed it. 

One single contact, and he _tries_. He tries to want me, to be attracted to me. After I remind him, he wraps his arms around my shoulder and squeezes me tight. He pulls me into his lap. He kisses me. Goddamn him, he tries. But he always has to be reminded that we’re … together, and so, in a way, it’s like we’re not together at all. 

He doesn’t treat me the way he treats a woman because those chemicals and pheromones and attractions just aren’t there. 

So why the fuck do I keep touching him? 

Because there’s something addictive in those warm, safe, feel-goody chemicals when he holds me. Something about his fingers folded between mine, the intimacy of our palms touching, takes the edge off of my frustrations with the Baptist Lesbians and my students and the morons I work with. Because I like the way he smells and feels and I want more of it all the time, and it’s not fucking fair that I want him so damn much, but he can’t even remember that he started this fucking affair. 

I wish he’d never kissed me. I wish he’d stop coming back here. Because every time he forgets, my chest feels tight and heavy and cold like I’ve been stabbed with a goddamned ice cicle. 

It comes to this paradoxically subtle crescendo while we’re participating in the Baptist Lesbians’ “Trunk ‘r’ Treat.” I really didn’t want to go, but I also hate the idea of Evelyn getting candy from total strangers, especially after what she’s been through. 

While I despise the Lesbians, I know that they love Evelyn, and they would never invite her to an event that posed a threat. I suppose, in a convoluted way, I trust them. 

Baptists’ Anti-Halloween events are shockingly similar to some gay clubs I’ve been to. They’re campy and lively with loud music and there’s four or five men dressed like rhinestone cowboys. And there’s karaoke. The only difference, really, is the lack of booze and the surplus of children. 

Evidently, Baptists’ also don’t believe in birth control, even if their teachings don’t explicitly say it. 

Basher, dressed as John McClane, and Evelyn, dressed as a firefighter are getting their faces painted. 

“We’re gonna be tigers!” Evelyn tells the two painters before she’s even taken her seat. 

“What if I painted a flame on your face?” one of the (young, attractive) painters asks. “Since you’re a firefighter?” 

“Um, no, we’re tigers,” Evelyn tells both of them, staring them straight in the eye. She’s such a shy little girl, but once she knows what she wants, she won’t be deterred. I once thought I’d give her the world, but now I realize she’d much rather prefer to attain it on her own. She’s very independent like that. 

I see the Young, Attractive Painter eying Basher’s left hand, searching for a ring. She wants to know if this child is _his_ child or if he’s just an uncle or a family friend, but she enjoys flirtation games as well, so she won’t come right out and ask him. 

She’s going to flirt with the man who is NOT my boyfriend. 

I’m not angry at all. 

“Oh,” Young, Attractive Painter drawls with her sickeningly saccharine Texas accent, “you’re a tiger firefighter?” 

“A tigerfighter?” she teases, eyes flitting to look at Basher. _Oh look at me I’m so clever, I’m painting faces at a church carnival la la la. . ._

I’ll kill her. 

Basher grins, leaning lazily onto the table so that the other painter can begin working on his face. I’ll shave the skin from his face while he’s sleeping. 

_Don’t offer me something if you’ll only withhold it later!_

Ooh, I do not like this side of myself. This is why Basher’s not my boyfriend and we’re not in a relationship and I’m not upset at all. 

“I fought a tiger,” he purrs back at her. Both painters giggle. 

“Really?” Young, Attractive Painter asks in teasing disbelief. 

“No, that would be illegal,” Basher laughs. His entire being is wrought with flirtation as his face is caked in orange paint. “Evey could fight a tiger, though.” He winks at his daughter. My daughter. That’s his only saving grace, really. He loves Evelyn. 

Evelyn laughs. “Yeah with a waterhose!” 

“You gotta be still now, sweetie pie,” the painter tells Evelyn and I absolutely want to drag her by her bleach-blond hair out into traffic and shove her in front of a lorry. _Don’t tell her what to do, bitch._

Evelyn overexaggerates freezing in place, making Basher laugh again. “You too, Mister Man,” Young, Attractive Painter tells him. “Can’t have your stripes comin’ out all wonkety.” 

“My face is all wonkety, anyway. No worries.” 

“He got scratched by a monkey,” Evey tells the painter. 

“In the face?” 

This is most asinine conversation on the face of the planet. 

“In the,” he mouths silently the world “goddamn,” “face!” 

She gasps, scandalized, grinning wildly. “Tsk, tsk, you’re in a church, Mister Man.” 

_Which is why you should stop acting like a total slut._

She reaches out and swats playfully at his arm. I can’t kill her in front of the entire church, not without having to uproot Evelyn from her newly established life again, so I walk away. In a blind rage, I find my way to a concession booth, and of course, everything is a deep-fried combination of meat, onion and/or cheese. 

Why not? If I’m going to murder two or more people tonight, I’ll need the energy. 

Ugh, stress-eating is not a habit I want to fall back into. Especially not in Texas, where calorie-dense and fatty foods plague the whole culinary landscape. 

When it’s finally my turn to place an order, I order a Coke and a Fanta for Evelyn. Basher can get his own fucking drink, the stupid slut. 

_He kissed me._

_He started this._

Damn him. Damn me. 

He can’t . . . he can’t what? We’ve made no promises, no declarations of whatever the hell love actually is. He can’t what exactly? Play me? Why not? He owes me nothing and vice versa. He’s just a stranger who sleeps in my house sometimes. And plays with my child. 

I can’t. I can’t expect anything from him. _Gratitude is meaningless. It is only the expectation of further favours._ So is romance and affection and relationships as a whole. The only person in the entire world whose affection means anything is Evelyn’s and even then it’s because she’s trusts that I’ll provide and protect. 

_DON’T FUCKING TOY WITH ME SEBASTIAN._

I take a deep, calming breath. I take a long sip of my Coke, letting the fizzy sugary burn sedate whatever jealousy chemicals are being produced in my head. 

I should get some wine on the drive home. Especially if Basher spends the night. 

I return to the painting booth where both my ex-employee and my daughter are striped orange, white, and black and grinning like sharks. 

Young, Attractive Painter’s hand is dangerously close to Basher’s arm. My blood pressure hits the roof. My eye twitches. Something inside of me hurts like a bitch. Am I having a heart attack? Is this actual heart break? Why do people do this to themselves? Why on Earth would anyone choose to be in a position where someone could manipulate the chemicals in their brain to cause them physical pain?? Is that not a prime example of an addiction? Of self-harming behavior? 

“Whaja think, Daddy?” Evey asks. I have to run the sounds through my head several times before they make sense as words. She grabs my hand and shakes it, eager for my affirmation that she does indeed look like a tiger. Still my gaze fixates on the virtual no-space between Basher’s skin and the Painter’s. 

Basher winks at me and my heart flutters and I want to shove his head in that goddamned deep-fryer at the snack stand. “He doesn’t even recognize you, Evey!” 

Evelyn cackles and pounces on me with a loud roar, nearly knocking the drinks out of my hand. She’s had entirely too much sugar. She’s going to be manic and then crash and she’s so anxious when she crashes, and here I am with a sugar-filled soda. 

“Careful, Evelyn,” Basher tells her. “You don’t want to smudge the paint. Or get it on Daddy’s suit.” He grins at me. 

I glare at him. 

He juts his jaw at the larger soda. “Izzat for me?” 

“Absolutely not,” I answer him, cool as I possibly can. 

And then. . .his rough, lean fingers are around my wrist, tugging me forward. It happens in slow motion. The heat of his hands on my wrist, the cheeky smile he flashes as he pulls me forward, the feeling that I’m going to drop the drinks. 

I’m in his lap. His arm is wrapped easily around my waist, so sure of his welcome. He’s so strong and masculine and charming and oh my god, I hate him. I hate him so much. I hate how this makes me feel. The up-and-down stomach, the blushing, all of it. It’s a waste of chemicals and body functions and it’s addictive. 

It’s like he remembers, and it’s almost as painful as when he forgets. 

Basher looks at Young, Attractive Painter and says, "He's my boyfriend. We're together." His hesitation is evidence of his blatant insecurity. 

“Basher.” I try to sound warning but it comes out breathy and shy and it’s disgusting and not who I am. He’s looking me dead in the eye. He takes the perspiring drink from my hand and takes gulp after gulp. Then he laughs, mischevious and teasing. Goddamn him. If there is a God, strike him dead in this church, please. 

“Joke’s on you,” I tell him. “That’s Evelyn’s drink.” 

He laughs deep in his chest and presses a kiss to my cheek. “What do you think? You like the tiger make-up?” 

“You look ridiculous.” 

“You look ridiculous. You’re not even wearing a costume.” 

“Yes I am!” 

“He’s Gomez Addams!” Evelyn tells him, snatching her drink from him. “Thank you for _my_ drink, Daddy.” 

He smirks. “Like that’s not just some excuse to wear a suit,” he breathes against my cheek. He squeezes my waist. “Come on, I wanna do that tour of Hell. I’ve always wondered what Protestants thought Hell looked like.” 

_It looks like my life when you’re in it._

~~

Basher’s staring at himself in the corridor mirror, admiring the paintjob. He smiles blushingly when he sees that I’ve caught him. 

“Like it, do you?” 

“Little bit,” he says, following me back to the living room. “Feel very predatory.” 

A shiver runs down my spine. I raise an eyebrow. “Pfft. You look like something from the Island of Dr. Moreau.” I take a seat on the sofa. 

He follows me. He crawls over the armrests, taking over the other two-thirds of the couch. He really does look like a tiger about to pounce. My legs feel weak, but I keep my poker face. It’s with some dishonesty and effort that he says, “And you look very handsome in your suit.” 

It’s obvious that he’s trying again, trying to be attracted to me. Trying to want me the way he wanted that Young, Attractive Painter. 

And that, frankly, hurts so damn much. So. Fucking. Much. 

I smell the whiskey on his breath. 

“Go to bed, Basher.” 

He pushes his head against my shoulder the way a cat headbutts its owner. “Come on, kitten, I like it a lot better when you call me Tiger.” 

“Is this some sort of furry foreplay? Because that’s not my thing, Moran.” 

“You got jealous,” he rumbles. He nips at my neck. “When that girl in the Ball Pit of Hell flirted with me.” 

I laugh out loud. “I didn’t even notice,” I say with absolute honestly. 

“Yeah you did. You grabbed my hand.” 

I don’t even remember that. “I was probably tripping on the stray balls from the pit.” 

He giggles. “Tripping balls?” 

“Go home, Basher, you’re drunk.” 

He shakes his head. “I’m really not. I had a lot of fun tonight, kitten. And I ate so much sugar. Come here, Jim.” 

I shiver again as he laps at my neck and paws at my thigh. He’s warm and giggly and boyish and charming and I just . . . 

Right now this feels so good and wonderful and I want it, and that will make it all the more painful when he forgets again. 

He pulls me into his lap, so that I’m straddling those gorgeous, thick, hard thighs. I see his hesitation, the second when instinct tells him to stop, tells him this is not the body he’s attracted to. Her pushes through it, though, and kisses me with a drunken slowness that somehow suits the humid Halloween night. 

_Just take it while you have it._

My self-control melts away and I grab his shirt to pull him closer. I bite his lips, his tongue, savoring the burn of bourbon in his mouth. His chest is tight and hot and firm and _fuck, it feels so good_ pressed against mine. 

“There’s my vicious kitty-cat,” he purrs. He pulls back to look at me. He looks ridiculous with that facepaint. It obscures his scars. I love those scars. It’s proof that the man wearing them survives no matter what. 

That’s the kind of man I want fucking my throat. Splitting me apart. Whipping me until my skin is black and blue. 

And yet he kisses so softly. Not necessarily shyly, just. . . unhurried because I create in him no sense of sexual urgency. 

His thumbs slide beneath my trousers, tracing the lines of my hipbones, slow and gentle. Then he goes upward, stroking the space between my hips and ribs, and it’s strangely intimate. I have to focus on keeping my cock soft, because erections tend to signal the end of our games. It’s too much for him at this point, but maybe one day the concept of my cock, of _my masculinity_ won’t be so unbearable for him. 

Maybe one day he won’t have to be reminded that he kissed me first. Maybe one day, he’ll just remember. 

And when I’m hot and panting and unable to control my arousal, I slide off of his lap. I’m surprised that he squeezes me to his side, unwilling to relenquish the skin-to-skin contact. “Hey, kitten,” he murmurs, dragging his wet lips behind my ear. “I think it’s customary in the States to watch a scary movie on Halloween.” 

I can’t help my smile. “Are you serious?” 

“Yeah, let’s make out on the couch and watch scary movies like horny teengers.” He closes in on me again, cornering me against the couch. One hand slides up my shirt, running his palm over my tummy and sternum. “I’ll protect you from whatever bogeyman is in the film,” he teases. 

“Do sweets often have this effect on you?” 

“No, just sour ones. I ate all of Evey’s sour skittles.” His tongue traces my bottom lip and I think I can taste the acid from the candy, but that’s likely just through the power of suggestion. “Come on, let’s watch a scary movie.” 

~~

He’s spooning me. His breath is uncomfortably humid against my ear, and his body is too warm to be pressed up against me. The truth is I don’t like particularly care for snuggles. It’s such an invasion of privacy and intimacy of this sort lends itself to having to ignore flatulence and burping and whatever undesirable things the body produces. 

And the human body really is disgusting. 

And yet, I let him do this. I want him to remember. 

He laughs as some poor bloke gets sawed in half and jumps when the murderer leaps out of the bushes. The Basher I knew through work was stoic and calculating, and this Basher is so reactive and emotional, and yet I can see both of them in the other, and so I can’t say I like one better than the other. 

“Maybe we should go off and fuck in the woods,” I suggest mildly. “All the kids are doing it these days.” 

“Hell, no. Seriously, my worst fear is that--getting shoved into a woodchipper. And that is definitely, one hundred percent what happens when you have sex in the woods.” 

“Oh I thought it was crabs.” 

“No. That’s one hundred percent what happens when you have sex in space.” 

I laugh. “Is that something they taught at Catholic school?” 

“That’s what they taught at film school, I’d say.” He leans over to kiss my cheek. “I think we should snog on the couch in the comfort of our home.” 

God, if he asked, if I thought he wouldn’t say no, I would spread my legs right now and let him take me with virtually no lubricant. I would. He’d be gentle enough. He’d provide adequate aftercare as long as I coached him. I’d ride him like a bitch in heat. 

I wish just once during one of these kissing sessions, he’d get hard. Just once, I wish he’d want me as badly as I want him.


	3. The Video for Magnussen plus Angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More details of the broken relationship post Sherlock's return and Jim's spiral into depression. Basher hates Jim for making him stay, but really, he just hates himself. Also, some pretty dubious consent bits here. Mags is a creeper, Jim fantasizes about Basher degrading him, and Basher has a crush on a girl at a bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this are just gratuitous porn. I'm only a little sorry.

_Basher's POV_

A cute little thing is eying me across the bar. She's young but legal. Her gaggle of friends giggle every time our eyes meet.

Nice tits, on the smallish side, done up hair like a proper Texas lady, long red fingernails. 

After I finish off my rum, I motion her over with two fingers. She comes willingly, her face red and her friends howling. She takes the stool beside me, smiling shyly. She's the socially anxious friend, apparently. Cute, but not certain of it, too insecure to flirt outside of the inebriated encouragement of friends. 

"Um, hi," she says. "I'm, uh, I'm--" 

"You old enough to drink?" 

"Yes si--Yes." 

I smirk at her. I nod over at the barkeep, clapping my hand on the girl's shoulder. "Max, whatever she wants." 

"I'll, um, I'll have Michelob Ultra," she says softly. 

"Except that," I say, grinning my best flirtatious grin. "I'm not paying for that." 

Her blush deepens. "I'm sorry--" 

I take her hand, feeling pleasantly buzzed and adrift in the current of female admiration. "Don't be. I'm just fooling. Bring her a Mic Ultra, mate, and a shot of Tulla Mor Du." 

"Another rum?" 

"Yeah, why not?" 

Orders in, I turn to the kid, fighting everything in my being to rest my hand on her thigh. Self-consciousness has made her smaller. I could undo that in half an hour. Give me two hours, she'll hold her head high like a proper woman. 

Can't do that, though. Gotta moody captor--I mean boyfriend--at home. A moody boyfriend pining so hard over a scraggly cocaine addict, he hasn't left his bed in two days. 

God, I fucking hate him. 

"I'm Elizabeth." 

I nod, rolling a balled up napkin between my hands. "Nervous?" 

"A bit." Her giggle is too high to be confident. 

I could marry this kid and get the hell outta dodge. I could take her behind the bar and work her over until she's a puddle of pleasure. Hell, she might even be open to mothering Evey. 

"Don't be." Our drinks arrive. "Can I give you a tip?" 

Her face falls. "Too much make up?" 

I brush her hair back over her shoulder, tempted to touch her neck. "Nope. You're gorgeous. Sit up straight though. You'll feel more confident. And you'll stop attracting the attention of creeps like that bloke in the back." 

She sits up a little straighter, eyes on the bar, laughing nervously. 

"There you go." 

She looks at me, marginally braver. "But it attracted the attention of a creep like you." She's not sure if she's pushing it. She's probably met a few men who didn't like her banter or her wit and threw a fit when she didn't play along with their script. 

I laugh and she relaxes, relieved. "Touche. It certainly did." 

She beams, proud of herself. "What's your name?" 

_Basher Moran. Colonel. Tiger, if you play your cards right._

"Doesn't matter," I tell her. "I can't take you home with me. And I can't go home with you." 

Her face falls again. I reach out to touch her thigh. "It's not personal, Elizabeth. You're very much my type." 

"Are you . . . are you in a relationship?" She searches my hand for a ring or the tan line of one. Her friends had walked by a few times, thinking themselves inconspicuous, checking me over for signs of my availability. 

"Sort of." I throw the rum back to quell bitterness rising up inside of me. "Boyfriend." 

Her eyes widen. She's not sure how my having a boyfriend fits into her being my type. I chuckle, sounding my more acidic than I want to. "Should I--I'll just go back--" 

"I'd like it if you stayed, even if it's just to finish your beer." 

She's torn. God, I just wanna touch her. I wanna touch her smooth skin, kiss my way down that long, thin neck. Every inch of me is vibrating for her. I could be wrong, but I think the feeling's mutual. She keeps staring at my lips. 

"So, are you gay?" 

"Nope." 

"Bi?" 

"Nope." 

"Trans?" 

"Nope." 

"Sorry, I'm not following. How do you have a boyfriend if you're straight?" 

I scrub my face, hating every inch of what my life has become. "No fucking clue. My life has completely derailed." I imitate a train careening of the tracks. 

"So. . . why'd you call me over here?" 

"Because you're cute." I lean in a little, watching her face for signs to back off. She lets me encroach. “Because you kept watching me, tryna catch my eye. It’s nice to be the pursued sometimes.” 

She laughs quietly. “Am I the creep in the back?” 

“Attention’s only creepy if you don’t want it.” 

“I’ve never, erm, I’ve never done anything like this before. Met a guy at a bar.” 

“Be careful,” I say before the words register in my brain. “Seriously, there’s some fucking crazy fuckers out there. Make sure your friends know where you’re going, all that shit.” 

“Are you dadding me?” 

It’s my turn to blush. “I don’t do daddy kinks.” 

“Isn’t that a hallmark of the gay sex scene?” she pushes again, unsure of herself still, but feeling safe enough to take the risk. 

“Sass,” I snap back. “I’m not gay.” 

“Then why do you have a boyfriend?” 

“We have a daughter.” 

She raises an eyebrow, the insecurity fleeting momentarily. “You realize how ridiculous that sounds, right? You’re not gay but you have a daughter with a man who you refer to as your boyfriend.” 

I scoot closer to her, careful not to touch her aside from my hand on her thigh. “Look at you, challenging the old man at the bar, feeling oh-so-clever.” 

She swallows, eyes still on my lips. Goddammit, I want her so much. I can almost taste her. I can almost feel the electricity that comes from touching a beautiful woman. She melts, leaning in. "Erm, you should, erm, you should kiss me. I won't--I won't tell anyone if you won't." She tries to laugh again, but it doesn't come. 

_Just one goddamn kiss. God, please._

My resistance fails and my palm is cupping her face. Something like a growl escapes my throat as she relents. I could have her. I could take her. 

_I’m a predator. Always have been._

_Except I’m not._

The memory of my bitch mother weeping after being confronted with the evidence of Augustus’s infidelity slams into me like a speeding lorry. The small, prey-like boy I once was feeling so helpless again, always so helpless. 

_“You can’t even come _home_ to me?”_ Except it’s not her voice. It’s Jim’s. 

All the id inside me is screaming to kiss whatever this girl’s name is. And everything else is telling me to go back to my weakling, selfish psychopath bitch of a boyfriend. Make him eat something. Get him the fuck out of bed so his muscles don’t atrophy. 

_I’ll never be predator again._

Evelyn will never feel as powerless as I did. Jim will never feel as unwanted as my mother did, even if it’s true. And goddammit, I hate that about myself. I hate this cloying loyalty, this bullshit notion about family, this desire to fix what Augustus broke. 

Jim looks at Sherlock for symmetry. I look to Augustus. We’re both so fucked up. Co-dependent and sick and enmeshed. 

I sit back, my cock positively furious. “Elizabeth, you’re not wearing too much makeup. You’re fucking hot as hell. Shoulders back, sit up straight. If some jackass gets his knickers in a twist because you’re sassy, don’t fuck him. Don’t even try to appease him, just walk away.” I pull a knife from the pocket of my jeans. “If you get in a situation where you need this, use it. But if you pull it out, be prepared to fucking use it. Don’t hesitate because the last thing you want is to be disarmed. Do not go home with that perv in the corner, yeah? In fact, I strongly recommend you hit up _The Grotto_ if you wanna decent one-night stand. And for what it’s worth, it’s _killing_ me that I can’t take you home.” 

I pay our tab and leave. 

~

I’m not surprised to find that Jim hasn’t fucking moved since I left his home two hours ago, and it makes me hate him all the more. I enter his room without knocking. Evelyn, who I tucked into her own bed before leaving, is sound asleep beside her daddy, clutching the collar of his nightshirt. 

His reptile eyes come to rest on me in the threshold. His lips are white and scaly from dehydration, and even though it’s only been two days since he’s eaten something, his face has taken on a more skeletal appearance, making the circles under his eyes look deeper and darker. 

I check my mobile for the time. Two-thirty in the morning. “Aren’t you supposed to be having a chat with Chuck?” 

Jim rolls his head, the snapping of bones echoing through the silence of the house. His tongue laves across his lips, an unsucessful attempt to wet them. “I . . . forgot,” he says slowly, voice void of any sort of apology or regret. 

A half-scoff, half-laugh bubbles from my throat. “Are you fucking kidding me, Jim?” I ask softly, careful to keep my temper at bay--or at least quiet--while Evelyn sleeps. His eyes narrow but he says nothing. 

I storm over to him, rage stacking up with every step. He doesn’t even flinch when I grab a handful of his hair and pull him off the pillow. “Get. The _fuck_. Up.” 

He tilts his head to look up at me. I see nothing in his expression. He could at least have the decency to be afraid. I could kill the little shit. I should. 

With a growl, I tug him out of bed, and he collapses to the floor. Hate tints the void in his eyes and I find I’m relieved. I didn’t leave some pretty little thing at the bar for a comatose vegetable. 

“Get up.” 

“Or what?” he asks, as sardonic as the depression will allow. 

Clutching the collar of his pyjamas, I drag him out of the room to the kitchen and deposit him at his chair at the kitchen table. “There is no ‘or what’. Sit at the table. Unless you want to eat on the floor like an animal.” 

With what seems like great effort, he obeys. I’m shit in the kitchen, but I know a thing or two about nutrition. Turkey with avocado slices, spinach and swiss cheese on whole wheat bread and a glass of milk. “Eat this.” 

He pokes at the paper towel beneath the sandwich and sideeyes me. 

“Plates are for people who can handle their shit, professor. Eat the sandwich.” 

He sulks. “I don’t wanna.” 

“I don’t care. Eat it.” 

He stares at the sandwich for a long moment. Then he looks up at me. “I wanna go back to bed.” 

“Eat your sandwich, Jim.” 

He pokes at the bread, then asks in a soft, fragile voice, “Did you fuck her?” 

My temper boils again. “Excuse me?” 

“The girl. Did you fuck her?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Just tell me, Bash.” He sounds so distant. “Did you?” 

Maybe I’m romanticizing him, maybe I’m seeing what I want to, but I think he might be jealous? Sad? “Nope.” 

His eyes flick upwards for a brief moment and he tries to flash a smile. He fails miserably. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. The silence stretches out. 

I lean in a little bit, the anger fading. “Eat the sandwich and you can go back to bed.” 

His nod is slow and deliberate, like an infant imitating its caregiver, then tears off a piece. 

~

Jim is marginally brighter after two days of consistent meals and water and being dragged into the shower. Most of his effort is expended on interacting with Evelyn. I think maybe deep down, through the fog of his depressive temper tantrum, he wants to be a good father. He doesn’t make her meals anymore, he doesn’t read to her, but he hugs her and kisses her and talks softly to her, even when I can’t get him to acknowledge my presence. 

How little must I mean to him that _Sherlock_ is the cause of this episode? The thought haunts me, embitters me. I’ve given up everything for him, and yet that’s not enough. I’m not enough. 

Why am I still here? 

I despise Jim for trapping me. I despise him for bringing me to the lowest point of my adult life. I despise him for what he’s done to _us_. 

Evelyn needed a real family, not this bizarre charade. She needed a mummy and a daddy who didn’t murder people or stalk drug addicts or slice themselves to pieces over someone they met all of three times. I wish to God he’d left her on the docks. 

I wish I’d left him in Nephin to waste away. 

I close the book I’m reading to Evelyn and kiss her forehead. And then I watch her. 

“Papa, what are you doing?” she asks through the veil of a doze. 

“Just thinking.” 

I could still take her away. I wouldn’t have the life I used to have, but it would be better. My contract with Mags is still valid. I could teach my little lady the art of being a predator for pay. We could be a father-daughter body-guard assassination team. 

The only problem is that she loves her daddy. She fell apart when her daddy was gone before. Could I do that to her again, even with Jim devolving into a toxic influence? 

Could I take from Jim the only thing that seems to keep him from slipping completely over the edge? 

I could. I could leave him. I could save her. I could escape. 

Except I couldn’t. 

~

_Jim's POV_

I’m surprised Moran hasn’t murdered me, to be honest. Every one of our interactions drips with loathing. Proper soldier, hating the weakness in me. 

I think maybe I almost feel proud? I can’t feel anything. 

My thought patterns, which I’d always childishly imagined as binary code, no longer contain zeroes and ones. Everything reads as killsherlock now. It’s an unresolved thought, and there’s not enough sertonin in my brain to keep the synapses firing, so everything’s just stuck. I’m in a rut of a single intrusive thought that I can’t act on. Because of a chemical failure in my brain, I have to act on thoughts to let them go, and because of a situational failure in my life, I can’t act on that one thought. Not without hurting my daughter. 

Which seems to be in direct opposition of where my brain is. I don’t care about her. I find myself holding her and kissing her, but I suspect it has to do with addiction to reward chemicals. Oxytocin is released and I can just barely feel it over the killsherlock obsession, which I suppose if I was well, I would find nice. 

It’s important that she feel loved, even if I don’t love her. Even if I can’t. I want her to be healthy and happy and secure as much as I can want anything in this brain fog. 

I don’t love anyone except maybe Sherlock Holmes. I want him dead. 

“What are you doing?” Basher grumbles behind me. He has no sympathy. Sweet tiger. 

An eternity spans between his question and my body acquiesing with my brain’s demands to answer. Ugh, depression makes everything so goddamned slow. “Turning on the tablet.” 

“You’ve been staring at it for twenty minutes, arsehole.” 

Really? Maybe I should try out cocaine again. A twenty minute delay is really unacceptable. I stare at my hands, wondering why they haven’t been doing the work they should. 

_One, two, three. . ._

There. It’s on. Finally. 

“Christ, professor,” he grumbles again, taking a seat beside me on the sofa. “Are you even going to be able to talk to Mags?” 

“Of course. It’ll be like old times.” 

A vague feeling of pleasure washes over me at Basher’s disgust. Sweet tiger, so upset about Charles Augustus Magnussen used to do to me. He might feel better if he gave it a try; he’s angry enough. 

He flops down beside me, keeping his distance. His body language indicates he’s closed off, uninterested in contact. In the past, small touches from me led to broader touches from him. I wonder. . . 

I exert what little energy I have and inconspicuously touch my knee against his. He instinctively jerks away; the action doesn’t even register on a conscious level. 

A bitter sensation of tightness flickers in my chest and then disappears, so that once again, I feel nothing. 

Magnussen’s on the screen before I realize it. I crack my neck, and something vague and akin to pleasure blooms beneath my skin, just strong enough to catch my attention. 

“James,” Magnussen’s voice cuts through the brain fog like a knife. Suddenly everything is painfully clearer, like someone over-applied the Photoshop sharpen effect to reality. The numbness of my skin reduces, and I realize that the entirety of my skin is achy. For a brief moment, I remember how I used to be, both as an adolescent under Charles’s tutelage and as a crime boss running London. Depression didn’t darken either of those eras. “You look unwell.” 

My lips are incredibly dry. Gross. When was the last time I moisturized? Or showered? “I have been dead for a few years,” I parry back. 

“Your tiger does not provide adequate care?” Charles’s gaze focuses on Moran, whose face has turned red with rage. 

“He does all right. He’s a bit angry with me.” I turn my gaze to Basher as well. “Borderline abusive.” 

His temper is simmering just below the surface. I can’t pinpoint the source of the desire to irritate him, but it’s there. 

Magnussen lets out a pleased hum. It would seem he also enjoys irritating the sniper. Such a horrible man; it’s always a pleasure speaking with him. “You do have a type, don’t you James?” 

Basher clears his throat, doing his best not to show his hand. “We’re severing my contract, Chuck. You two can flirt on your own time.” 

“Flirt?” Magnussen says with mock surprise. That was one of the things I admired most about Charles--for all intents and purposes, he sounded sincere, but there was always that little hitch in his tone that indicated it was all false. A proper mindfucker, gaslighting lesser victims. “Surely you wouldn’t deny old lovers the chance to visit?” 

Moran’s shoulders tense at the word “lovers.” “Should I leave you two alone then?” he barks back. 

“No, no, dear boy. Down to business, then.” His pale eyes rest on me. There’s a languid sort of intensity in them. The man could slice the skin from your body with all the sadism and viciousness or a fourteenth-century executioner all the while maintaining an even heartrate. I would say without even breaking a sweat, but. . . “James, I understand I am returning the Colonel to your custody?” 

Moran scoffs. “Custody? Are you serious?” 

I reach out to rub his back, but he jerks away again. “He’s very upset, Charles. Don’t antagonize him.” 

“I’d say he is jealous that in just a few minutes of conversation with me, light has already returned to your eyes and color to your cheeks.” 

For the first time in what must be ages, I smile. “Don’t flatter yourself, dear. I’m also _truly_ enjoying watching him squirm. He’s a bit squeamish in the bedroom, and apparently you’ve told him all our little secrets.” 

Magnussen turns his attention to the Colonel. “Are you aware that voyeurism is one of his many kinks?” 

Moran turns crimson with fury. It would make sense, biologically, for Basher to feel protective. A predator is mocking the parent of what he considers his child. Perhaps he even feels territorial of his mate, despite loathing me and my weakness. _He’s certainly not alone in that._

“Let’s cut to the chase, darling,” I say, narrowing my eyes. Suddenly I feel the blood of Jim Moriarty, who I once was, swell and swim through my veins. I’m making a deal. For my benefit. Because I’m Jim Moriarty and I can. “I want Sherlock Holmes.” 

“No.” 

“Give me Sherlock Holmes, and I won’t have any need of your body guard.” 

“Tempting, but no.” 

Basher’s temper is erupting internally. He shoots me a lethal look and gets up from the couch to pace. Tiger is ready to fight, but there’s no fight here. It’s all mindfuckery and deals. This is, after all, the twenty-first century. 

I lick my lips again, still flabbergasted at how scratchy they are. “How about we make it fun? A game, per se.” 

“I don’t play games, Mr. Moriarty.” He uses the same tone he used when I was in Denmark, interning with his company. It sends shivers across my skin. 

“It could be fun,” I dare him, leaning him. “Who can kill Sherlock the fastest?” 

“I know how I will kill Mr. Holmes already. I do not need a time limit; the noose is already about his neck.” 

I try to disguise my disappointment. The depression certainly dampens my temper, but I’m aware that my skin feels warm with catecholamines, urging me to fight or take protective action. Unlike Basher, though, I can control my facial expressions. How the hell the man successfully cheats at cards, I’ll never know. “Then I need Basher unless you’re counting on my loyalty to keep Sherlock safe.” 

“Have you consider practicing self-control, Mr. Moriarty?” 

“We both know that my impulse control is iffy at best.” 

“Only when you want it to be.” 

I lean in, dropping any pretense of friendliness. “You think that my paternal feelings for my child will keep Sherlock safe, and you are very, very wrong, Charles. And I have no problem dying if it means I get to finish off the baby Holmes. I will tear London apart to get to him, even if that means cutting through you.” 

He leans back in his chair, keeping the same placid smirk, but the minute change in his posture tells me that he’s considering my history, risk factors, et cetera. He knows I’m not a “well” man, and he knows the extent of it. 

My lack of self-preservation has always been the ace up my sleeve. 

Magnussen sets his sights on the human embodiment of rage pacing behind me. “You are unable to satisfy your lover, Sebastian? He has to chase after other men?” 

Basher leaps over the couch with no difficult, slamming his palms down on the coffee table where Magnussen’s face sits. “I will fucking murder you and then we won’t even need to have this goddamn meeting--” 

“Careful. Don’t threaten me, Moran, lest your little family suffers.” 

“Do it, big man, I will come after you with hellfire. I can get past your men. And when it’s just you, you’re a fucking coward.” He spirals in nonsensical violence and is practically frothing at the mouth when I manage to get between him and the screen. 

“Let’s look at where we find ourselves, Charles. If I kill Sherlock, you don’t get the pleasure of doing so and you come after my child and me or maybe you tell your BFF Mycy about me, but then Basher, who has survived bombings, being a prisoner of war, bear and crocodile attacks, and God knows what else, comes and he has nothing left to lose. How do you suppose you’ll fair when he doesn’t need your money, just your head?” I can’t help but smirk. Basher isn’t wrong--Magnussen is a massive coward, which is why he makes for such a wonderful sadistic partner. He wants power and will gladly take it in the bedroom. “Give me Basher, you can play your little game with Sherlock, and I’m out of your way.” 

He chuckles. “What on Earth makes you think that he’s capable of stopping you?” 

“I’ll be trying, you know. He’ll keep me straight.” The depression rolls over me again. My words seem slow and foreign coming out of my mouth. Suddenly the world seems to be sepia-toned. “Together I think we’ll manage.” 

I feel Basher’s eyes on me, and for a moment that’s all I feel. 

_I’m so weak._

_Basher despises weakness._

“You give him to me. You get your detective. Once Sherlock’s dead, you can have him back. In the mean time, I’m kept at bay.” 

“What guarantee have I that he won’t come after me?” 

“My life. Evelyn’s. He’s a protector, first and foremost. He won’t put us at risk.” 

“I could just tell my friends in high places where you are and be done with it. I would be protected.” 

“I have information that you want, though, dear.” 

That piques his interest. Information always does. He tilts his head back and forth in thought. “Continue.” 

“For every month that my existence remains a secret and for every month that you leave us alone, I’ll give you information. Information on your boytoy Ice Man, information on Sherlock, information on the Black Lotus gang, anything you want.” 

“I’ve personal ties with Mycroft. What could you possibly tell me that I don’t already know?” 

“You’ll just have to leave us alone to find out, won’t you, Charles?” 

“All right, James, dear. You abandon your endeavors to murder Sherlock Holmes and I will leave your little family alone. You may keep your tiger eleven months out of the year. I get him for four weeks out of the year, whenever I need him. Likely, those weeks won’t be consecutive.” His pale eyes focus in on Basher and the blood in my veins runs cold. “And, for my benefit, so that I know your lover is sincere, that he won’t turn on me, and as a gift for you, my dear little magpie, I have one last request.” Every single one of his yellowed teeth is exposed with his smile. “Don’t worry, Mr. Moriarty, you’ll benefit from this.” 

~~

_Basher's POV_

Jim returns from dropping Evelyn off at Amber and Susan’s. He pulls the tumbler from my hand and presses a kiss to the side of my face. “This could be lots of fun, Bash,” he murmurs against my cheek. He nuzzles against the scruff on my chin. My stomach churns. 

I push him away. “Get off, Professor.” 

Rage flashes in his eyes and I wish to God he’d hit me so that I could fucking deck him. He doesn’t though. “Is the camera ready?” 

I might just deck him now. He’s been perkier today, a shadow of who he used to be. Fucking pervert. He’s looking forward to this. Jesus, what have I done? How have I come to this? My head is pounding with fury and disgust. “Nope.” 

“What the fuck have you been doing?” he snaps back, impatient. 

“Drinking.” 

He slides like liquid into my lap. He kisses me. My stomach sours. “Come on, Tiger. It won’t be so bad. You want to choke me, don't you, Tiger? It'll feel good to alleviate all that rage. And I want it, Basher. I want you to throttle me properly. It'll be good for both of us. Give us both what we need.” 

My temper comes to a head and I shove him to the ground, stopping short of kicking him in the ribs. 

“You’re fucking disgusting, you know that? A blackmail video is what gets you off? _That’s_ what makes you get you out of bed? You brushed your teeth and did you hair and all that and I didn’t have to force you and why? Because Magsy wants a video of you being a little whore? Do you know how sick that is?” I’m shouting at him. Some smartarse psychologist might say the situation has triggered some weird PTSD symptoms from _that one time_ with Augustus and the American Senator and the camera when I was little. I’m sure they’d be wrong though. 

It’s probably the whiskey talking. Because I’m just like my dad. 

Jim gets to his feet, and for a moment, I think he’s going to fight me. Instead, he slides his hand between my legs and fondles me. “Would it help if I wore make up? If I heightened my voice? I could act like one of your little girlfriends.” 

“Are you mocking me?” I demand. Because I honestly can’t tell. 

“Tell me, Tiger,” he whispers, voice high and feminine. “What do you need to get hard for me?” 

My stomach churns again. “Stop it. God, you’re such a fucking pervert.” I jerk his hands away from my cock and leave him in the middle of the living room. “Go get your things. I’m not letting Magnussen violate the sanctity of our home. I’ve rented a room off-island.” 

I pride myself on being a thoughtful, thorough bed partner. I’ve never needed to record or photograph or take mementos because I know that I’ll be welcomed back with open legs. For some men, those sorts of trophies make them feel powerful, but really, they’re just undisciplined and weak. A _real_ man doesn’t need memories when he can have the real thing. You make her come hard enough, often enough, you’re golden. 

So Mag’s request for a video infuriates me. 

He wants to intrude on some intimate conquest, wants me to hurt a smaller man as if there’s any glory to be found in subduing someone weaker. 

“Someone’s angry,” Jim finally purrs, beaming from ear-to-ear. 

I distance myself from him. 

“Oh dear,” he pouts mockingly, “are you ignoring me?” 

I open his car door for him out of habit. I don’t wait around for him to get in the vehicle, though. He can shut his own bloody door. I don’t work for him anymore. 

No, I’m his slave now. I don’t work for him; I labor for him. Goddamn him. He’s got everything now, doesn’t he? My sexuality, my privacy, my freedom. 

_I want to break free._

I realize the words are coming from the speakers, not my head. I jerk the mp3 player from the auxiliary cord and toss it into the seat behind me. I check behind me to see if it’s clear to back out. 

Jim glares at me. “Throwing a tantrum, Bash?” 

I don’t look at him. “Don’t talk to me.” 

I can feel his eyes cloud over, like a storm rolling over the horizon. “I'm getting you out of a miserable contract, you could at least say thank you.” 

“Aren’t you the one that always says gratitude is meaningless?” 

He smiles again. “Touche. Still I thought you’d be happy to be rid of Magsy.” 

I inhale deeply. I take the keys out of the ignition. And I unload. 

“Are you fucking kidding me, Jim? Seriously? Why the fuck would I be happy about this, eh? No more travelling, no more shooting? WHY THE FUCK WOULD I BE HAPPY, EH? Mags _paid_ me to zip around the world to kill and intimidate and spy--sort of like you used to before you lost your fucking mind! _You_ singlehandedly have ruined my fucking life. This is the opposite of what I want, Jimmyboy. Do you understand that? Do you understand what you’ve done to me?!” 

He gives me that reptilian headtilt, cold and unfeeling. “You could’ve said no.” 

I laugh. “Really? I could’ve said no? Watched you destroy yourself and our daughter? Oh, I’m sorry, your daughter?” 

His face turns positively sadistic. “Would that have been so bad, Basher? Watching me destroy myself? Do you _looove_ me?” 

I raise my hand to hit him. He doesn’t flinch; his smile doesn’t even fade. “Hit me, Tiger,” he says lasciviously. “Come on, big boy, do it.” 

“You’re disgusting.” I shake my head and restart the car. I ignore him the rest of the way to the hotel. Without my wall of anger to lash out against, he falls back into his depressive state. 

~

_Jim's POV_

_Basher’s massive cock slides into me with little preparation, minimal lubrication, and my back arches. “Tiger, you’re too big.”_

_“Take it, slut. This is what you’ve wanted isn’t it? To be taken? To be devastated?”_

_“Yes,” I whine, trying to get away from the intrusion. “Yes.”_

_He pumps into me before I’m ready, forcing himself deeper into me. “I’m giving what you wanted, kitten. Just like Mags did. Just like all those nameless men in clubs, in alleyways. Except this time, you filthy little whore, you’re mine. Permanently. You won’t come for anyone else ever again. You won’t come unless I give you permission, and you will only come from my cock in your tight little hole.”_

_“Y-yes, Tiger.”_

_“Look at the camera, pretty boy.” His massive hand forces my head to face the eye of the camera, to face what will soon be Magnussen’s eyes. “Tell him, Jim. Tell him you’re mine.”_

_“Basher, please...please don’t make me.”_

_He presses an uncharacteristically sweet kiss to my cheek. “Do it, sweet little bitch, and I’ll choke you. You like that, don’t you, Jim? Not having to breathe? Being that close to death. At my hands. Tell Magnussen you’re mine, kitten. Tell him you’re my fucktoy.”_

_“I am, fuck. I am, Bash. I’m your little slut. He’s going to ruin me, Charles. Ruin my hole.” And those lean fingers wrap around my throat and squeeze._

_I want to shout my thanks, but Basher doesn’t fuck around. He’s cut off my air supply completely. “Look at me, Jim. Look at me when I fuck you. Let me see those pretty tears.”_

Except none of it’s true. Basher is so repulsed by me, by Magnussen’s demand, that he can’t keep it up. I’ve slipped a thick vibrating plug inside myself, letting it tease my prostate and the sensitive flesh around my rim. "Look at me, Bash." I guide his hand to my cock. Maybe this will change his mind. Maybe my pleasure will trigger some predatory instinct or protector instinct. Maybe this is will change things. 

“Kiss me, Tiger, please, please.” I guide his face to mine, and he only growls. He ruts against me, just for show, so that it appears that he’s fucking me. I lick his lips, trying to entice him, and the hatred on his face intensifies. He bites my tongue and my back arches as I moan. 

“You perverted little bitch,” he snarls into my ear, soft and out of the camera’s periphery. 

“Choke me, Basher, choke me. I’m so. . . I’m close.” He shrinks back, repulsed. “Please, Tiger, please. Do it for me. Do it for your little family. Protect me, Tiger. I can’t do it without you. Keep me safe, Bash. Keep me right. Look how hard I am, Tiger.” 

He slaps me hard across the face, then his strong hands squeeze my windpipe and . . . oh . . . maybe there is a God. 

_Basher looks to the camera as he slaps me again. He grabs my pulsating cock, prolonging my orgasm until it’s painfully sensitive, and I’m writhing. “This is what he needed, Chuck. And now he’ll be a good boy for me, won’t you, kitten?”_

_His grip on my throat won’t let me answer, so I just nod enthusiastically. Two fingers swipe through the come on my stomach and Basher shoves them down my throat._

I make the mistake of opening my eyes. Painted on Basher’s face is loathing and disgust. In a flash, I realize that maybe I’d had certain hopes, certain expectations . . . that maybe this moment, even with Magnussen’s intrusion, even with the sadomasochistic games, might remind Basher that he said he wanted me. He kissed me first. He took me to bed first. I wanted this to maybe be a turning point. Instead, I realize, I’ve miscalculated. I’ve underestimated the power of his sexual hang-ups and his ire. Choking me hasn’t released his anger; it’s intensified it. It’s repulsed him. 

In that quick flash of realization, I _ache_. _pleaseBasher._

_killsherlock._

_I can’t._

And as quickly as it appeared, the agony is lost in the returning numbness. 

I will never bed Basher again, and that’s okay. I’m okay. I’ve done what I must to protect my little girl. Nothing else matters. 

I want to die.


	4. Christmas Foreplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim confesses his real name and Basher is aroused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need assistance determining which porn direction to go in. Any input is appreciated. <3

_Christmas Eve Eve 2015_

The smell of gingerbread cookies and pine needles hangs heavy in the Nephin cabin we’ve rented again. Jim likes it here. It’s comfortable. Something about it feels like him. Despite the elegance and intelligence that makes up Moriarty, there’s something inherently isolated and quiet about him. 

Midnight finds Jim and me on the floor in front of the fireplace, working through a bottle of Greenspot. It’s not my favorite; it’s got a fruitiness to it that I generally try to avoid in my choice of booze, but I figured Jim would like it, and I wasn’t going to open the Knappogue until after midnight mass on Christmas Eve. (That’s my personal Christmas tradition.) 

A few hours ago, Evelyn fell asleep in our bed, watching Christmas movies. We left her there, with the door to our bedroom cracked, because even though its been over six months since Eurus abducted our daughter, we’re still a bit hesitant about being back in Europe. Simultaneously, we both wanted to drink heavily since we’re on holiday, and Evelyn dead asleep after playing in the snow all day seemed like the opportune moment to do so. 

Jim’s alcohol tolerance is way below your average Irishman’s. After his third shot, the giggly man is sprawled out on a quilt an arms length away from me, red-cheeked and glassy-eyed. He’s babbling on about the time he poisoned all of Evelyn’s blond classmates so she could play Goldilocks. 

“That was stupid of them to cancel the play,” he says scathingly. 

“They thought it was a terrorist attack, Jim.” 

“That’s stupid. Why would terrorists attack only blonde four-year-olds?” 

“Excuse me?” I cough accusingly. “You used to facilitate practice attacks on small populations like that all the fucking time. Remember that time you sent me to that hospice facility out in Leeds to test out some frog’s chemical?” 

He smiles fondly. “You were so mad. You felt that was beneath you.” 

“It was beneath me. You just liked pissing me off.” 

“I was trying to break you in. You were much too prideful and curious to be my Chief of Staff.” He downs the remainder of whiskey from his glass, wincing at the burn. “You know who I should poison?” 

Of course I do. I want her poisoned too. “That Jenny girl in Evey’s year.” 

“Yes!” he snarls, sliding his empty teacup back at me. “One more.” 

I chuckle at the glassy look he’s giving me. “I don’t know, kitten, you look pretty gone.” 

“Ha! Like I’m going to let the resident alcoholic dictate how much I drink.” 

I pour a half shot, because he’s too pink and adorable for me to deny him anything right now. “We might be able to transfer her to a different school, you know.” I scoot closer to him, handing him his cup. 

“I’ve considered it, but there’s two reasons why that’s a bad idea. One, I murdered her principal and it would look suspicious if I transferred her. Two, she has friends at this school. Disrupting that unnecessarily could be damaging. And she’s an only child, so socialization outside the home is even more important.” He sips at whiskey then pulls a face. “Hey, hey, get some honey.” 

I shake my head. “You’re not putting honey in this. It’s not tea.” 

“Get it.” 

“Get up and get it yourself, Prof.” 

He points accusingly at me. “You’re taunting me.” 

“I absolutely am not.” 

“Mhm. You are. Because you think that I’ve had too much to drink, and I can’t get it on my own.” 

“Jim, don’t analyze me when I’m buzzed. Trust me, there’s not a whole lot happening upstairs right now.” 

“There’s not a lot happening upstairs anyway.” 

“You could always get another one.” 

“I will if you’re offering.” He throws back the whiskey in the teacup and shoves it across the hardwood floor toward me again. 

“I meant a kid. You could always get another kid.” I pour him another shot anyway, sliding it back over to him. “If you add sugar, you’re gonna be hung over tomorrow.” 

“That’s a myth. And I don’t wanna ‘nother kid.” 

“You just want her to fit in?” 

“I don’t want anyone to bully her,” he says pointedly. “And Jenny’s not really a bully, just a nuisance. A know-it-all. Bitch.” 

“You know, I’ve been thinking about my sister a lot lately. I’d like Evey to meet her.” 

Jim shakes his head. “Absolutely not.” 

“Why?” 

“She hates you; she’s religious; she’s homophobic; she lives in Romania. The list is endless. And if she’s going to meet anyone’s siblings, she’s going to meet mine first.” 

“You have siblings?” 

“I have a brother.” 

“What? Really?” 

“Yup.” 

I slide his shot back over to him. “Is he real or is he a person you created for criminal purposes?” 

“He’s real. Really real. He’s a stationmaster in Cork. So boorring.” 

“What’s his name?” 

A bizarre grin splits Jim’s face. “Oh. . . Basher. His name is James.” He lays flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. 

I laugh. “You’re lying.” 

“I’m not. His name is James.” 

“Your parents named you both James?” 

He covers his face, battling the contagion of my laughter. “My name’s not really James.” 

“It’s not?” 

“Nooo.” 

I pull his hands away from his face, scooching closer. “What’s your name then?” 

“Ugh, my parents were absolute pricks.” 

Oh my God, is he toying with me because I’m drunk? “Your name is James, isn’t it?” 

“No.” 

“James Moriarty and James Moriarty, sons of Jamie and James Moriarty.” 

He kicks at me but misses. “It’s Jameson.” 

I don’t know why but that gets my attention. Well, I do know why. I perk right the fuck up, hovering over him to study his drunken expression. “Jameson?” 

“Yessss,” he hisses, clearly irritated but giggly. “Jesus Christ, I hate those people.” 

“Like Jameson whiskey?” 

“My dad worked at the distillery before the one in Dublin shut down.” 

_OH FUCK._ I crawl closer to him, feeling warm all over. “Jameson’s my favorite whiskey.” 

He groans, covering his face again. “For God’s sake, Basher, _that’s_ what does it for you?” 

I pull his hands away again, laying down on my side to face him, my torso pressed against his flank. “I don’t know what it does for me, but it definitely does something.” 

“Pervert.” 

“I almost picked up a bottle of Black Barrel, but I thought, ‘nah, I won’t get anything too Irish. Might piss Jim off.’” Feeling braver (and hornier), I slide my hand up his jumper, ghosting my fingertips up the line of coarse hair below his navel. The material slides up and I can see the faint blush on the skin of his stomach. 

His glassy eyes are fixed on me. The heated gaze he gave me at the firing range all those years ago suddenly pops into my head. The look he’s giving me now versus the look he gave me then is drastically different, but both make me feel desired. It’s a nice feeling, being wanted. Something primitive and basic about someone finding the exterior of your being attractive. 

“You let me call you James in bed,” I recall. “That’s not your name. Why didn’t you correct me?” 

“What and tell you my alcoholic mother and father named me after their drinking problem?” 

“Oh, Jim,” I groan, tracing the line of stomach to his sternum, exposing that pale skin. “ _Jameson._ ” 

He’s trying so hard to cling to sobriety. “Oh no. No, no, no. We’re not playing this game.” He shoves me back and starts to sit up. 

But I’m just. . . just too aroused to let him push me away. I shove his chest downward, straddling those slim hips, too buzzed to worry that my weight might be too much for him. “Oh, we are, pretty kitten. My _Jameson_.” 

His face is flushed from the roots of his hair to the skin that disappears beneath his clothing. He pushes me away half-heartedly. I take the offending hand and kiss his palm, acutely aware of his eyes fixated on what I’m doing to him. I trace the outline of his hand, pressing kisses to the tips of his fingers. 

His breathing has quickened. With very little effort, I sit up and pull him into my lap. “Are you sure you want to play this game, _Tiger_?” He somehow manages to be mockingly while panting and writhing in my lap. 

I bite his shoulder and he _whimpers_. Jesus. _Jameson._ “You know what I want?” 

He shakes his head, quiet, high-pitched gasps emanating from his throat as I slip my hands beneath his sweater again, massaging the muscles and tendons of his back. 

I grin against his jaw. “I wanna fuck you in front of our Christmas tree.” 

He’s off of me in the blink of an eye, kicking drunkenly at my face. “Damn you, you contemptible asshole!” 

I chuckle, reaching for him. I feel incredibly predatory. Oh my God, I’m going to win tonight. I’ve not seduced him; there’s been no fighting; it’s just the two of us, drunk and happy and horny in front of the Christmas tree that we decorated as a family. That resilient frame and that easily bruised skin is going to writhe in pleasure beneath me, because I know his name, because I know more about him than I did yesterday, because he’s opened up to me. Moriarty is _mine_. 

It’s probably the alcohol talking. 

But I don’t care. 

“Come to your Tiger, kitten. I’m not done playing with you,” I say, keeping my voice low and deep. 

“Well, I don’t wanna play with you.” He stumbles backwards, dizzy from the drink. 

I sweep him off his feet, carrying him princess style to the over-sized, over-stuffed leather futon that sits right in front of our Christmas tree. He simultaneously clings to my shoulders and struggles to get down. “Not in front of the fucking tree! Goddamn it!” he shouts as I lay him down. He tries to get up but I’m on top of him before he can get too far. 

“Mm, yes, in front of the Fucking Tree.” I raise my eyebrows at him again, and he groans, trying not grin. “I’m pretty sure that’s an ancient Celtic holiday tradition, right?” 

“You’re stupid.” He covers his mouth so I won’t see him chuckling. 

I caress his cheek, looking deeply into his eyes. “You’re beautiful, Jameson.” 

“Is this some heterosexual seduction technique? Being a charming asshole while drunk?” His voice isn’t quite as even as he’d like it to be. 

I nuzzle my face into his neck, feeling warm all over. More than anything, I want to feel his skin against mine, feel his breath as he pants. I want . . . I want to be with him the way I’ve been with women, and that realization should terrify me, but I’m too subdued. I just want. No fear, no second-guessing, just a longing for intimacy with this crazy person I’ve exposed all of my vulnerabilities to. 

I kiss him, and initially he’s resistant, but I can’t care. I’m incapable of stopping showering him with affection at this point. I slide my arms between his back and the sofa, pulling him to me as tightly as possible. “Oh Jameson,” I breathe like I’m trapped in a bad 80s romance novel, “I love you so much.” 

On his face is hesitance, quite possibly fear. We haven’t exchanged “I love yous” since June. We’ve had frottage-y sex, he’s sucked me off a few times, but our sex life hasn’t been as active as one would think. Jim’s still coming out of his depressive episode, I’m straight, our daughter is absolutely batshit insane, we’re rebuilding a criminal network from scratch--things just haven’t lined up. 

I can’t give Jim what he wants. I can’t give him the cuts, the bruises, the suffocation. It’s not in me. I don’t know that he can give me what I want--which is an active, loving participant. 

Even so, I want him so much right now. 

I tap my lips against his, playful, eager to keep the mood light. “Jameson?” 

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles back. His hands come to rest on the small of my back and it makes me shudder. He’s not pushing me away--there’s no rejection in his touch. 

I kiss him harder, squeezing his body to mine, relishing the heat of him, the intimacy of being so close, of feeling his heartbeat against me. “Kitten?” 

Something inside him settles. I feel the tension lessen in his spine and limbs. “Yeah?” His voice is soft and small. 

“I don’t know how to ask this without killing the mood,” I grin against his mouth, “but can I fuck you?” 

He snorts. His fists ball up the ends of my shirt. “Well, we are in front of the Fucking Tree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . I've rewritten the sex scene following this over and over and over again. Sometimes it's really sentimental and emotional; sometimes it's giggly and schmaltzy; sometimes it's really aggressive and BDSMy; and lately it's sent Jim spiraling into an existential crisis because feelings are scary. 
> 
> So, dear reader, if you would, please, please, PLEASE, give me a direction. A word. Anything. Tell me where I should go in terms of porn, because the boys wanna have sex. I want them to have sex. 
> 
> Thanks in advance, beloved reader.


	5. Christmas Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim reflects on the horrors of non-S&M sex. Basher is a big sentimental baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not what I wanted it to be but it is what it is.

_"All my life I've been searching for distractions."_

Pain is a delicious distraction. Keeps you in the moment. The future doesn't exist when the body is just trying to survive. What's an hour when you may not last a minute? 

I don't fear pain, and I don't avoid pain, and that's been my strength my entire life. My wildcard. It scares ordinary people, my lacking a self-preservation instinct. Makes them feel like they're dealing with a real psycho. 

The first time--my first time--Carl Powers had slammed me up against the wall of the showers. An older boy, stronger. He’d tried to frighten me, but he failed. I wasn’t afraid of him or whatever the hell he was going to do. 

He’d torn through me, ripped me to pieces, and I laughed at him, the way he’d laughed at me numerous times before. This was the apex of his bullying? _This_ was his magnum opus? Assaulting me in the shower? How could I not laugh? How pedestrian could he be? 

And terror washed over his face when I laughed, and it was fantastic. My masochism, I realized, was an untapped resource. 

“Give us a kiss, Carl,” I’d said. He ran. Two hours later, he was in shock, rescue workers trying to resuscitate him. 

And, really, there’s beauty in pain. So many little details, nuances, the way the brain lights up, telling your body to avoid _that_ sensation. Or to go to it. And even the way the skin can interpret something as simple as a scratch in a myriad of sensations is a thing of beauty. It can burn, it can sting, it can ache, etc. Definable, concrete terms apply to a scratch that inherently describe a sensation. There’s beauty in quantification and measurement. 

There’s beauty in the familiar, too. In knowing what to expect. I know what to expect when my windpipe is closed off. _Tears. Pressure. The shouting and quickening of my heart._ I know what to expect when hot metal is pressed against my skin. _Burn. Sizzle. Putrid smell of burning flesh. The lingering, agonizing sting. Sometimes there's even flashes of cold._ I know what to expect during sex. _Being ripped apart. Bitten. Choked. Stretched._

Except none of that happens with Basher. 

There's something earth-shattering and restorative in the way his chapped lips touch mine, and not in a good, pleasantly distracting way. Every yielding kiss, every tender touch, _every time I seek out his skin against mine_ , I feel like I'm breaking into a thousand pieces. 

Pain is processable. Tenderness is lethal. 

Every goddamned time Sebastian Moran puts his arm around me, I devolve. I become less and less, and I'm terrified, and I want more so damned bad. Like an addict. I'm a fucking addict, losing myself to some broken portion of mybrain that craves this assassin's gentleness. 

_"No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."_

Somehow, this idiot has. He's gotten close. He sees my vulnerability and does nothing to exploit it. He could have the world, and he settles for drunken kisses in front of our tacky Christmas tree, and he shouldn't be alive. I should kill him. 

He knows my name. My real name. He knows more about me than he did yesterday and it excites him. It's not what I do for him that excites him; it's what I am to him, that I've let him the tiniest bit closer--that's what excites him. 

How can I trust a man who can't be bribed? How can I predict the actions and behaviors and thoughts of a man who doesn't require anything of me? Who just stays because I asked? 

Basher terrifies me. 

His affection terrifies me. 

My desire for him scares the hell out of me. 

He got to me. 

In my drunkenness, he got my name, and that shouldn't be a big deal, because this isn't the fucking Dark Ages, there's no power in a name, but it is, because . . . 

Because it's more than most people have. 

Jim is aloof and unaffected. Jameson has always been vulnerable. 

It's as Moriarty, Jameson that Mycroft Holmes tortured me. It's as Jameson Carl taunted me. 

And it's as Jameson Sebastian Moran is going to. . .what? Fuck me? 

And . . . 

I AM FUCKING SCARED. 

I want to retreat. I want to surrender. 

And this idiot is off-key humming "It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas" while he undoes his trousers! 

"You all right, kitten?" he asks. "You're pale." 

"I'm Irish." 

He slides his nude from against my clothed one, his hands kneading the scratchy fabric of my jumper. His erect cock brushes against my jeans, and I whimper. How am I the exposed one when he's naked as a newborn? 

Basher is grinning this boyish grin, pleased and needy all at once. "Nooo," he says, pressing a small kiss to the corner of my mouth. "You look distraught." 

"I'm distraught because you're so boring in the bedroom." 

The insult doesn't faze him. "Thank God we're in the living room, then, eh?" He chuckles to himself and kisses me playfully, oblivious to the existential crisis into which he's tossed me. 

By all means, he’s a proper predator. Homicidal, strong, moderately intelligent compared to most. By all means, sex with Basher should be rough and painful and beautiful; not gentle and giggly and full of Bing Crosby songs. 

He's got those amazing broad shoulders and thick, firm arms. I love the veins that stand out on his arms, as though his muscles have just shoved them to surface because there’s literally no more room in his skin. Like his flesh can barely contain his strength. 

I love the hair on his chest, how it feels when I run my fingers through it, how deliciously masculine it makes him look. 

His naked body is pressing me into the futon, his tongue stroking mine while he slides my jumper up to my neck and unbuttons my trousers. He’s making soft, pleased sounds, like a large cat humming and chuffing, nuzzling along my belly, then my neck. 

And I’m drunk and it’s too much. I know what comes next but the sensations are strange and unknown and I just want him to bite me, cut me, hurt me. 

“No,” I tell him, removing my hands from his warm, firm, perfect shoulders. “Knock it off, Tiger.” 

And he fucking _whines_. He whines like he couldn’t take me against my will. Like my “no” is actually capable of stopping him. His affection and sentimentality are his weakness, and _god-fucking-damn it, they're mine too_. 

He buries his face in my neck as I move to sit up, to get away from his soft licks and sloppy kisses. “Please, kitten? Please?” I feel him grin against my skin. “It’s Christmas, Jameson.” He starts to chuckle, the heat of his breath making me shiver. “What’s that song?” 

“Oh fuck, don’t start.” 

“ _I don’t want a lot for Christmas, I won't even wish for snow, something, something about mistletoe._ ” 

“Oh my God,” I groan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile. 

He nuzzles the other side of my neck, giggling. “How’s it go, then? Come on, pretty kitten, sing for me.” He shifts his weight innocently enough, pushing me back down against the sofa. 

“Absolutely not.” The weight and heat of his nude form is too much. The physical indications of my interest aren’t concealable. 

“Then play with me,” he pleads. A knowing grin is splayed across his face. His voice deepens. His lips tap mine. “I’ve been.” Kiss. “So good.” Kiss. “This year.” 

Arousal tenses my spine. I whimper against his mouth like a little bitch. Before I can stop myself, my fingernails are digging into the muscled expanse of his back. “Liar.” My voice quavers. 

“Mm, you’re right,” he rumbles. He slides my jumper up again, exposing my stomach and chest so he can kiss upwards. “I’ve been an absolute menace.” The stubble on his chin leaves a mild burn in its wake. 

I don’t realize it at first, but Basher’s chaste kisses are following the twinkling lights on the tree. How absurd. 

_WHY THE FUCK AM I GETTING HARDER?_

“But,” he starts, tugging my jumper over my head, “I think I’ve got just the thing to make up for it.” He laughs again and starts in on my trousers. 

That interests me enough that I don’t shove him away when his hand finds my cock. “Oh?” I try to sound bored, like I’m not terrified at the prospect of having icky sentimental melty sex with this beast of a man. “Did you get Daddy a prezzie?” 

He pulls back, grinning drunkenly while he studies my face. “No. I got myself a prezzie. But you’ll benefit from it. _Kitten._ ” 

“Go and get it, Tiger. Before I get bored and send you to bed.” Before the terror overtakes me and I murder you and bury your body under the floorboards. 

“Tsk, tsk, so bossy, even on the holidays.” His mouth is on mine again, drunk and sloppy and just . . . precious. I _want_. How something can be soft and rough at once is astounding, but the Colonel is a giant ball of contradictions. He truly is like a giant, well-fed tiger. Territorial, curious, playful, murderous. 

Suddenly, he's gone and I'm cold. 

God, I just want him so much. I’ve never wanted anyone or anything like this before. Lust has never gotten into my skin so deep that something else couldn’t distract me. 

That frightens me. 

And what frightens me even more is that I’m willing to let him play his soft little games with me, willing to let him be soft with me. 

It’s not fair. 

I don’t like shaking like this. I don’t like the flippy-flopping my stomach is doing. I don’t like how dry my mouth is, how desperate I am to be touched, how willing I am to accept caresses instead of bruises. 

He returns and I’m so grateful. In fact, I hear myself fucking whine like a little bitch. “Bash.” 

He slides back down on top of me, all smiley and chipper, humming “All I want for Christmas is You” completely off-key. Mariah would be mortified. 

“Baby, your heart is beating so fast,” he notes, resting his palm over my chest, pressing harder than he realizes. I can hear it. I can hear the treacherous organ beating too loud and too quick, betraying the anxiety. The heat of his palm, the strength in his arms, the sickening familiarity with which he touches me. . . 

And my idiot sniper just grins. “Are you excited, kitten?” 

I have no clue. No idea. There are neurons firing in my brain in a way that’s new, there’s no drama that preceded this encounter, we’re just . . . he’s just . . . 

Nothing seems real and everything seems too real and I don’t know-- 

I feel like a computer that’s frozen. I’m trying to function, trying to register external stimuli, and yet . . . 

_You’re strong and murderous and masculine and you’re so sweet and soft and knowing my REAL name does this to you and I’m frozen and at your mercy, but not in that erotic power-dynamic way; in that terrifying, co-dependent kind of way and . . ._

_I’m unnerved because I’m devolving, you bastard._

I’m losing. 

And his attack begins. He holds up a tube of lubricant, and for a moment everything seems familiar. Rough, tearing penetration, bites, bruises, suffocation-- 

“OH MY GOD.” I hiss. 

He cackles. “Yes!” 

“For the love of God, Basher--” 

“It’s peppermint flavor!” 

“No!” 

“Like a candy cane!” His grin is as infectious as his enthusiasm. 

“No.” 

“Yesss,” he hisses back. He slides my pants off, even as I try to buck him off. “Settle down, little kitten. Fuck, I love Christmas. Come on, Jameson, settle.” He pins me down, lips centimeters from mine. “Let me have this, _my_ Jim.” His teeth graze my bottom lip. I can feel the lingering burn of whiskey in his mouth. “Let me get you all nice and slick and tasty and I’ll lick you nice and clean like a candy cane. Please?” He flashes this devious grin. "Please, Daddy?" 

I try to swallow but my throat is like sandpaper. “Are you begging me, Tiger?” 

He grinds that thick, hard cock against my thigh. "Oh I am, kitten. I'm begging you." 

Even though he's on top. Even though he's stronger. Even though I'm trembling like a leaf. 

And I'm just barely able to breathe his name. I can't agree or disagree or anything. 

I don't like this distraction. 

I nod my head, giving him the okay. He kisses me again, deeper, more subdued, his hand cupping my cheek. Despite my best efforts, my body relaxes into the sofa. He kisses his way down the length of my body. I can sense the hesitation when he gets to my erection. 

_Fine. Stop. I don't need this._

_Please don't stop, Tiger. Please don't._

The cool lubricant against the heated tip of my cock makes me draw in breath in surprise. Bash glides down, slow and purposely coating the length of me. "I've already tasted it," he admits. He rubs his eyes. _My poor sleepy Tiger._ "It doesn't taste like peppermint." He laughs to himself. "But I'm sure it tastes better than cock, right?" 

I'm pleasantly surprised at the vague sting the lubricant leaves in its wake. It fizzles out when Basher applies more but then returns with a vengeance a moment later. This may actually be bearable. Maybe? 

He coats my balls as well, thumbing over them with a clinical interest. I start to close my legs and say something indignant, but his hands spread my thighs, so that I'm completely open to him, totally at his mercy. My cock twitches in interest. The stinging peppermint awakens the nerves in my cock to a previously unknown draft. I feel like I've shoved my dick into a york peppermint pattie. 

And then his thick, warm tongue probes the base of my cock and with quick, feather-like licks, Basher makes his way upwards. He reaches the tip and gives me a cheeky look before sucking it into his mouth. The lubricant that lingers on his tongue swirls into the slit and the sting is all the more intense against the sensitive internal tissue. He pops off and makes a face. "Gross." 

I start to kick him away. "Moran, I will--" 

He holds me down, keeps me in place and repeats the action. "Be a good kitten, Jameson. Be good for your Tiger," he purrs, before lapping at my cock a third time. He presses my thighs into the couch so that I can't close them. This time, he stops at my frenulum and sucks, his teeth ever so gently scraping over it. In vain, I buck against his grip. He laughs against the flesh in his mouth. It's not devious, though. It's not even teasing. Just the sound of a contented man laughing at his (mis)fortune. 

"I've not got your talent for deepthroating," he says, "but this isn't too bad, is it, boss?" He winks at me. 

He keeps this up for a few minutes, licking my erection like it's a lolly, sucking on small expanses of skin when the mood takes him, blending the stinging lubricant with precum using his tongue. 

I focus on the sting, letting it ground me against the backdrop of un-quantifiable soft licks and kisses. Or I try too. Every hum he makes, every obscene sound he emits brings me back to the "pleasurable" sensations, and the fear resurfaces. Why can't my Tiger just. . . hurt me? 

I've spent years being mauled by the Woman, by Magnussen, by strangers in clubs and in alleys, by clients who had never seen my face--and now I have a Tiger who refuses to do so. 

What if I can't come like this? 

Then that's his fucking fault. I've told him what I need. 

I want to come for him. I want to keep him around. I want him to want me. I want him to love me and need me the way I need him. He keeps me right. I can't stop _thinking_. My brain is buzzing. The anxiety is increasing. 

KILL SHERLOCK. 

NOT RIGHT FUCKING NOW. 

The stinging inside the slit, the stinging as it spreads. . . focus on that. Focus on his tight grip on your thighs. Maybe it'll bruise. 

Basher reapplies the lubricant, his calluses and scars nearly undetectable beneath the layer of gel. A new wave of mild burning washes over my penis, and I'm grateful for the distraction. 

I need distraction. A new one. A better one. 

I bite the meatier part of my palm, centering myself, focusing on the familiar, definable sensation of teeth buried in skin. 

Basher continues to work me over with his mouth, and I just let myself exist. My body seeks out more of his mouth, and he keeps me pinned down. The ache in my hand settles my brain. I can stay in the moment. God, yes, this is . . . 

Suddenly, my hands are pinned over my head and an angry Basher is glaring over me. It excites me. "Good kittens," he growls through gritted teeth, "don't bite, Jim." 

I writhe beneath him. "But I _need_ it, Tiger." 

"No, you little slut, you need to be good for me so I can make sure you have a proper orgasm." The anger melts from his face. "I wanna be good to you, Daddy." He rests his forehead against mine. "And I can't do that if you're misbehaving." 

My mouth is dry. "You're manipulating me." 

"It's working though, isn't it? _Daddy_." Sarcasm drips from the epithet. He leans down to kiss me, the tingle of peppermint smearing across my lips and the insides of my cheeks. "Are you going to be good for your Tiger?" 

_My tiger. Maul me, Tiger._ I nod. 

"That's my good kitten." He guides my hand between us to his hard, hot erection and _fuck_ , I want that. Such a perfect cock, thick and long. I want it in my mouth, in my hand, in my arse. "See? I love it so much when you're good. Do you feel how hard it makes me? How _wet_ you make me?" 

I think I'm whimpering. I don't know. I can't hear over his groans as he ruts into my hand, head tossed back like a cat getting his chin scratched, complete with the stupid grin. 

I hate how this makes me feel. Sex shouldn’t be messy like this--before Basher, it never was. I felt, I hurt, I screamed, I came, I dealt with the wounds. The end. None of this “my chest feels like something is melting inside of it, I better rip it open and let it out” shit. 

He grinds against me and whimpers, and it’s too much. I wish he’d fucking hit me, choke me, _anything_ , because pain is understandable and manageable. This is--God only knows what this is. It’s overwhelming and I hate it. 

The realization hits me that there’s vulnerability in pleasure that doesn’t exist in pain, and it shakes me to my fucking core. 

I think. 

He retrieves some other unflavored lube before he positions my legs over his shoulders so that he can open me up. I’ve spread my legs for dozens of men (and women and everything in between), but I’ve never felt as exposed as I do now. Instinct is telling me to close my legs, to tell the big bad Tiger to stop because once he’s inside me something is going to change. Something in our relationship is changing now, and I’m not ready. I can’t stop it. 

“Choke me.” And it sounds so pitiful and I hate it. 

He doesn’t even say no; he just ignores me, starts licking broad stripes across my nipples, massages the insides of my thighs, groaning in pleasure, like he enjoys _giving_. 

I’m disappointed at the slowness, the deliberate gentleness in which he prepares me, massaging the hole, ensuring it’s positively slathered in unflavored lubricant, easing in a single digit with the same speed that someone removes a Jenga block. 

When I order him to hurry, he just kisses me. I think that’s the only thing the sniper knows how to do. Kiss and rut. His sex life prior to me must’ve been devastatingly boring. 

Even so. . . 

_Damn him._

Even so, it’s pleasurable. No burning at the stretch. No tearing of internal tissue. I won’t have to do infection prevention because there’s no bleeding. 

_My Tiger is so soft. And I don’t know what to do with that._

Barring Evelyn, before Basher, no one had ever been _soft_ with me. Hooper tried to be soft with Jim from IT. Riley tried to soft with Rich. Throughout my life, there’s been a handful of conquests and pawns who have tried to be soft with my various identities--and I’ve despised every one of them. Killed quite a few of them in fact. 

His slim finger finds that sensitive spot inside of me. It’s nothing new, really. He’s not the first one to touch me there. And yet, it feels so completely different. 

_This is too much. Basher, stop._

“Jameson.” He breathes my name again, and something shatters, and I’m gripping his neck, even as he massages lubricant deeper into me. 

“Stop. Calling. Me. That.” 

He shushes me, pulling my fists from his neck, still gentle, as though I wasn’t just trying to choke him. “Talk to me, kitten,” he purrs. “Is this good?” 

“Would you please just fuck me already?” _Because this slow and gentle is unnerving and I’m scared of being on the receiving end of it._

With a contented grin on his face, he rubs my prostate, teasing along the edges with that one single finger. “I love you. I love you so much. I wanna make you feel good, kitten.” And his mouth is back on mine, his stubble burning my cheeks. 

His free hand slides between us to stroke the head of my cock, and a whimper escapes my throat and my hips rut upwards, like I want more. 

Goddamn him. 

I turn my head, and he kisses along my jaw to my ear, and there’s just a continuous wave of goosebumps erupting across my skin and I start to feel tremory. “I can take you now.” My voice sounds so foreign. I need pain, discomfort, anything, because this giggly, drunken, tender sort of intimacy is unbearable. 

He withdraws, leaving me empty and exposed and wet, completely at his mercy. My breath catches. He’s going to fuck me. 

And it’ll be a stretch, a nice long definable burn that will make this bearable. 

Instead, he lubes up two fingers and slides back in. His other hand is sliding along the underside of my erection, just ghosting along. 

“Basher,” I growl at him, “stop teasing me.” 

His eyes meet mine, and the sincerity on his face is ridiculous and sweet and I’ll need to kill him because it hurts too damn much. He brings his fingers to his lips, sucking off the precum--my precum--like he legitimately enjoys it, and says, “I’m not teasing, kitten.” Damn that boyish grin. 

Damn his sincerity. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? How am I to process something I can’t fucking grasp? Something that’s not real? Does he know what he’s doing to me? Is this some elaborate torture to break me emotionally and mentally? 

Oblivious to my internal crisis, he nuzzles into my neck again, murmuring, “Is this good, kitten? Does it feel good? I wanna make you feel good, Jameson.” 

“Basher, please, please, please--” 

He pulls back and kisses me again. “Don’t beg, boss. Let me take care of you?” He thrusts his fingers in a little deeper, making me shudder. “Can I, boss? Is this good? Tell me, boss. Is this good?” 

Is it? 

Unskilled fingers tease the prostate gland inside of me, unsure of the line between “good, safe depth” and “I hope I don’t puncture your colon.” His touches remain shallow and slow, and it’s the worst sort of torture, because it’s not _enough_. Not enough to hurt, not enough to come--it’s like a tickle. 

“My kitten,” he purrs to himself. “I’ve done a lot of reading about this. One article said the prostate was five to six inches deep.” He presses on the gland, emphasizing the falsehood and making my back arch. “Clearly, that’s not true.” Basher leans down, sucking the tip of my cock between his lips as he grazes over the bundle of nerves in a soft but quick succession. “I’ve also read that the prostate swells during arousal. I think that’s probably true.” He keeps his fingers moving in quick, gentle thrusts. 

Strange warmth, thick like honey, begins to crawl up my thighs, engulfing the lower half of my body. I’m reminded of the ocean receding just before a big wave. His teeth barely scrape over my frenulum again. I gasp. Something in my gut tightens. 

“I’m sorry I got snappy about the biting.” Basher keeps his voice low and deep between mouthing at my cock. “I get, oh what’s the word, territorial? Protective? I don’t like anyone hurting my boss. Not even you.” 

I reach out to touch his shoulder, zeroing in on the warmth and the way the muscle there moves as he does. He lets out a needy moan, sucking just a little harder than before. He returns to hovering over me, kissing not-quite-peppermint flavor onto my tongue, and he rests his forehead on mine when he’s finished. The internal massaging never ceases. “I like it when you touch me, Daddy,” he grins. 

My arousal is building. My body feels heavy and slow with pleasure. 

My hands slide down his arms, reveling in their strength and heat. My Tiger could crush me. My face is hot, and my limbs feel like jelly. It’s so boring and cliche and I hope he doesn’t stop. 

_For the love of your god, please stop._

He half-smiles, his tongue coming out to trace my lips. “Ready to go for three?” 

Something erupts inside me. “OF COURSE! YOU IDIOT! I’ve taken toys _twice_ your girth! I’ve taken two cocks at once! You’re not special, Basher!” 

To my surprise, he chuckles softly. Basher’s harder to rile when he’s drunk. “Is that supposed to impress me or disturb me?” 

“I’m not fragile.” 

“I am.” A third finger slips in slowly, spreading my hole a little wider, and this time there is a nice burn. “I’m a fragile man, Jameson. Looking for love in all the wrong places. All that jazz. You have to be gentle with me, _Daddy_ , or I might just shatter.” He ends with a groan and I realize that I’ve involuntarily squeezed his shoulders. 

I can’t catch my breath. 

“Basher, I need _more_ than fingers.” 

“You’ll get it, kitten. Promise.” He sucks my nipple into his mouth, lightly working it between his teeth. A pang of arousal shoots through me again. 

He works until my nipple is sore and I’m squirming, and then he repeats the process on the other one. My back is arching and my thighs are tensing and I’m cautiously hopeful that I’ll be able to come from this. I feel so warm and safe. . . 

And then he stops. Withdraws altogether. I’m cold and empty and wet and furious. His hand covers my mouth before I can shout at him. 

I see red. I’ll skin this bastard and wear his skin to mass. I bite the palm covering my mouth, hard enough to feel the skin give. 

KILL MORAN. 

“No, no, little kitten,” he cooes. “What did I tell you about biting?” He leans down to kiss me, and I’m all teeth, attacking his mouth. I don’t know what my end goal is but I’m going to disfigure this man. Nails slice into skin as I tear into him. 

“Fuck me, Basher,” I order, “or I will nail your intestines to the fireplace and leave you there!” And I mean it. It’s not just talk. I’ll torture him. No one makes a fool of Moriarty, not even my big bad tiger. 

“Jameson, you’re so angry,” he teases. “Was my kitten close? Were you going to come? Tell me, kitten, or I’ll leave _you_ like this.” He squeezes my erection, making the ache of disappointment all the worse. 

“Do it. They’ll never find your body,” I snarl. 

In one fell swoop, Bash has my legs wrapped around his waist, and oh, it feels so good. So right. Safe and secure and about to get fucked. 

He palms my dick, spreading precum and saliva and the remaining lubricant around the crown and down to the base. At the same time, he’s pushing the head of his cock inside of me, stretching me more than his fingers prepared me, and it’s heavenly. My fists tighten against his back and shoulders and my legs pull him closer to me. 

“Yes, Tiger, yes, that’s what I needed, you fucking tease.” 

He stops moving once the head is snug inside. “Be nice, Jim. Santa’s watching you.” 

“Basher, please. Please. Please move. Go deeper.” 

He eases his way deeper inside of me, his hard abs gliding across my own less-than-toned gut, a cocky smile on his face. He’s slow and deliberate, taking his time as he seeks out that pleasure spot. 

God, it feels so good. Perhaps not physically, but mentally. I feel settled, calmer. It washes over me. 

My heterosexual boyfriend is inside me. He’s grinning and humming and the disgust is nearly completely absent from his expression. I realize for the first time that, for the last five years, there’s been a steady stream of fear running through my inner monologue, buried deep beneath the surface. I’ve been scared that Moran would leave. 

And now, I’m certain that he won’t. 

I don’t know why I’m certain. 

Ugh, those melty emotions are coming on again. 

The head of his cock slides over my prostate, and the sensation coupled with the emotion makes it difficult to breathe. “My Tiger.” 

Basher glides in and out, slow and smooth, worrying that spot that makes me moan. “Your Tiger,” he purrs back, nuzzling into my neck again. “All yours, boss.” 

He fists my cock while shallowly penetrating me, gentle and sweet, like he’s not an assassin. Like we’ve not killed people. Like I didn’t threaten him with death for not drinking a latte. 

“I love you, Jim. Even when you’re naughty and bite-y and bitchy.” He kisses my neck and nibbles at the skin until I shudder. 

My mental map of my body suddenly seems to focus in on those three points of contact--where we’re connecting, where he’s jerking me off, and where his mouth is touching my neck. My nerves are lit up like our Christmas tree. His body is pressed so tight against mine. 

Just a few more thrusts . . . 

And then he stops again. Withdraws. 

Tears of fury and betrayal sting my eyes. He shushes me before I can scream, kissing the side of my face, pleading with me to keep calm. “Shh, shh, I love you, Jim. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t, kitten. You’re going to feel so good when you do finally come. I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t going to be amazing, kitten. Trust me. Trust your tiger.” 

_I was. And in the span of five seconds, you destroyed that trust._

“I will murder your entire family.” The severity of the threat is dampened by the fact that the words come out in a whimper. 

“Shh, shh, you’re my family, kitten. Hell, we can do the whole Ruth and Naomi thing. ‘Your people will be my people.’” 

The arousal subsides and I’m left feeling I might implode. It reminds me of the unfulfilledness that plagues me when I’m trying to break the obsessive hand-washing cycle, only magnified and infinitely more urgent. 

Basher strokes my flanks and my chest, trying to soothe me. “I think about your lips a lot, kitten. I think about how they match the color of your cock. I think about your eyes too, how they light up when you get your way and how they get so stormy when you don’t. You’re so expressive, Jim, and I just love that about you.” 

He traces the tip of his index finger along the underside of my cock, applying just enough pressure to keep me hard. “I’ve developed an appreciation for your body, too, kitten. I don’t think I’ll ever be attracted to other men, but I’m attracted to you. I love your skin, how smoothe it is, how it turns pink when you’re aroused. Everywhere. Your chest, your stomach.” He kisses me again, no tongue, just lips. 

_I’m losing again._

“I need--” 

He shushes me again, his tone soft and gentle and understanding and _urging my surrender_. “I know, Jim, sweetheart, I’ve got you. I know what you need. Just relax. Trust me.” 

_I do._

And so, I let go. 

My body goes slack. My brain quiets. I throw my arms around Basher’s neck, and I do my damnedest to quell the distrust that swells inside me. The alcohol has left me feeling heavy and warm, and Basher’s ministrations have left my nerves alight. 

I take a deep breath. 

Basher’s hand rests on my throat as he kisses me. He doesn’t press and I don’t lean in, and we kiss like we’re not outliers in a universe of ordinary people. Like the existential isolation of being a psychopath and a child of abuse doesn’t haunt us. 

Like it’s all enough. 

It is enough. 

He enters me again, one hand gripping my thigh while the other cradles the back of my neck. He kisses the inside of my wrists when I reach up to touch his face. 

This is how ordinary people fuck. 

It’s not terrible. 

I feel warm and oozy and that thick feeling of warm honey spreads over me again along with the sensation of an impending tidal wave. The tide ebbing outward. 

Deep breath. 

“Sebastian.” 

He bucks upward at a slow pace that gradually gains momentum. He fucks deeper into me. Faster. Harder. For reasons unknown, I hold onto him, tight as I can. 

Basher won’t laugh. Basher won’t leave. And for the first time in my life, I feel completely safe and sheltered. It’s a deep feeling, frightening in the depth of which it will affect my life from here on out. 

He fists my cock again. He kisses down my chest to suck my nipples again. He fucks me harder, assaulting my prostate, teasing precum from my slit. My whimpering makes him jerk, hips thrusting harder and faster. 

“I wanna make you come, Jim. Can you come like this?” He’s sounding less and less coherent. His pace picks up, becomes sloppier. “Kitten, please? Please come for me. Come for your Tiger. I wanna be good for you, Jim. I wanna make you feel good, kitten. Please? Please, boss?” He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Come for your Tiger, Daddy. Because it’s Christmas? Because I want it so bad. I want be your good Tiger, Daddy.” 

_My Tiger._

I shatter beneath him. 

I’m shuddering. I’m twitching. I’m floating. I’m safe. 

I’m loved. 

Vulnerable “Jameson” merges with the persona of “Jim” because it’s safe now. And Basher has no idea. He’s just pleased to be fucking in front of a Christmas tree. 

This is what an occupation feels like. To have surrendered, to be invaded, to change how you live because of an occupying force. 

I can’t change this and I don’t want to. 

He collapses on top of me, a sweaty mass of muscle coated in my come. His belly smears it across mine. He kisses behind my ear, gently easing his spent cock out of my hole. 

“Get off of me,” I groan. “You’re so heavy.” 

“Get some more whiskey,” he murmurs, resting his head on my chest. 

“What did I just say?” I try to sound snappy, but I can’t. I feel shaky all over. “You’re too heavy. I can’t move.” 

“Mm, let’s go to bed.” 

“Okay, well, you have to get up.” 

“I’m sleepy, Jim.” 

“Get the fuck off of me and we’ll go to bed.” 

He looks up at me with contented, glossy eyes. “That was fun, Jim.” 

“For you.” 

He groans again, forcing himself up and off of me. He tosses my pyjamas to me, then dresses himself. "Let's go to bed." While I dress, he downs another shot. He lifts me gracelessly off the couch. He stumbles a little and for a moment, I fear we're going to topple over, but he rights himself. 

"I fucking love Christmas, Jim." 

"You're an idiot." 

"Christmas idiot," he slurs. "Christmas idiot who won." 

Evelyn doesn't stir as we climb into the bed. Basher spoons me, even though I try to wriggle away. I'm overstimulated, I'd rather not be touched, but I'm too tired to escape. And maybe I just want this. Maybe I just want to be here. 

" _I don't wanna lot of snow for Christmas, I don't even want snow, I just want some mistletoe..._ " 

"Basher, I swear to God." 

"You shouldn't. You godless heathen." 

He continues to hum drunkenly in my ear until he falls asleep.

It's a nice distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've lost Jim's voice. I'm trying desperately to reclaim it.


	6. The Honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honeymoon Chapter. Just sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dubious consent stuff if you squint, but it's all fun and games, so have fun and read at your own risk. Jim's fucked up and he's pulling Basher into his games. 
> 
> I just started reading Kim Newman's The Hound of the D'Urbervilles and it's the best, and I feel kinda bad because this fic sort of echoes a lot of that book, so . . .
> 
> This was so hard to write. Like, I struggled. I haven't even edited it because I have, like, zero desire to look over it again. I will one day though.

The adrenaline still hasn’t worn off. That’s one of the great things about murder--the rush lasts a long while even after the deed is done. I feel light and strong and invincible, because once again someone (or many someones) tried to kill Sebastian Augustus Moran, and they failed. I won. I’m okay. I’m always okay.

On top of that, that bitch who kidnapped my little girl a few years ago is dead, her head on a pike overlooking the ocean. I hope Mycroft enjoys my little present. Don’t fuck with Moran’s family, not even once. (I don’t care what Jim says; he’s taking my last name and that’s final.) 

I feel refreshed and clean. Revenge has put me back on even footing. And I’m an honest man now, which excites me way more than it should. 

Now if only my vain little husband would get out of the loo, we could consummate our marriage. 

“Jim, what _are_ you doing?” I shout at the door. 

“Getting ready,” he answers in a slightly annoyed singsong voice. 

I pace around the room again before settling on the bed, folding back the blissfully soft and silky sheets. I can’t wait to have Jim on his back, his pale skin contrasting with the burgundy sheets. It was all I could do to let him wander unaccompanied to the loo. If I’d known it was going to take this long, I wouldn’t have let him. 

The hotel staff have left dark chocolates and champagne and roses to celebrate our nuptials. I’m surprised Jim hasn’t touched the chocolates. 

“Jiiiiim,” I growl in my lowest register, the one that usually makes him so easy to manipulate. “Jameson, kitten, come out for your Tiger.” 

“Baaaasher,” he mocks me, “you’re getting on my nerves!” 

I slam my fist against the door and return to pacing. “You better not be putting on that wedding dress!” 

“You’re awfully annoying for someone trying to get laid.” 

“I shouldn’t have to try to get laid on my honeymoon. Especially after I murdered 13 people for you.” 

“Should I accept that as an official invoice?” 

I grin. “No work until we return home.” 

“I’m always working, dear.” 

That stops me dead in my tracks. My temper flares. “Are you working _right now_?” I swear to God, if he’s sending emails or coding while I’m out here with a half-chub and still riding the thrill of adrenaline-- 

I don’t wait for him to answer. These old Grecian hotels don’t have the best locks, so with some fairly minor lifting and pushing, the door swings open, revealing my groom’s nude form leaning over the sink while he applies some sort of cosmetic under his eyes. 

We just came through gunfire and violence, and I’m pleased (and aroused) to say that my husband hasn’t a mark on him. Not even so much as a bruise. Because he’s mine to protect and I protected him, and _I absolutely must have him right now._

I trace the line of his spine, watching the reflection of his black eyes meet mine. “Behave, Bash,” he purrs before returning to his work. 

I love Jim’s body. I really do. It took a while, but I love the hardness of his chest and arms and the softness around his middle. I love those slim hips and swimmer’s shoulders and the smoothness of the skin that covers them. 

Jim blushes when he’s aroused. Not the “shy and retiring” sort of blush, the “blood is surging up to the surface of my skin and my nerves are all alight” sort of blush. I lean over him to kiss his neck, waiting for the blush to appear on his chest and spread upward. 

“Daddy’s not finished,” he shrugs me off, but the evidence of his arousal is clear. 

I nip at his ear and he shivers again. “What are you doing with all this stuff, kitten? No need for dress-up now.” 

He clears his throat, rebuffing me again. “If you must know I’m trying to make your honeymoon special.” 

“By making me wait?” 

“No. By looking younger and less like a dad. See these damned circles under my eyes? They’ve always been there. I hate them.” 

I cover his eyes and pull him up right to that he’s pressed against my chest. “I think you’re full of it,” I growl at him and start to tease a nipple. “I think you’re being a tease, knowing how revved up I am but making me sit on my hands while--” Something inhumanly hard presses against my thigh. My eyes flick up to see Jim grinning in the mirror. The fingers that were playing with his nipple slide between us to feel the hunk of plastic between his arsecheeks. “What is this?” 

He shakes my hands away from his eyes and leans back over the sink, the curve of his back deeper now to better present his plugged little hole. “I’m not finished getting ready, Basher,” he says primly. “And I won’t be rushed.” 

I don’t know why I’m so fascinated with the thing. It’s not like I’ve never seen a dildo before. In fact, I’m sure this is the same toy Jim used for our video for Magnussen. I hate it infinitely less now than I did then. 

“What _is_ this?” I don’t know why I’m asking. I tap the end of it, amazed at the tightening of his thighs and glutes and the soft little gasp he elicits. I tap it again, firmer this time. 

Jim lets out a triumphant little chuckle. “Well then, we’ll let that keep you busy while I finish up.” He applies something to his lips, not a stain or anything, but something that smells vaguely of vanilla and coconut oil. 

The toy slides out with a little tug and Jim hisses. In the mirror, I can see his face void of reaction but the blush is creeping up past his neck to tickle his cheeks. His ribs expand as he takes a deep breath. I give the toy an experimental twist. His facade fades the tiniest bit and he rests his forehead against the mirror until he can compose himself. 

I slide it back in just as slowly. “How long has this been in?” 

“Since we reached land.” His voice hitches. 

I remove it completely and he curses, his reflection glaring at mine. “It’s not as thick as me.” 

“Jealous?” 

It glides back in with a lurid sound and his back arches. “A bit. What’s it feel like?” 

He answers in a bored tone, one that suggests I’m _not_ slowly pumping a toy in and out of him. “You’ve had things up there, Tiger.” 

“I hated it. The plug anyway, not you. And I certainly wouldn’t’ve been able to navigate busy streets with it in.” 

He cocks an eyebrow. “You could learn if you wanted to. I could _train_ you.” 

“You’d like that, would you? Parading your tiger around town, knowing I’ve got your toys inside me?” 

“You’re already such a well-trained pet; you could easily learn some new tricks.” 

“I’m not _trained_.” I know he’s just trying to rile me, but I fall into his trap regardless. Probably because my bones (you’re welcome for the double entendres) are aching for a proper fuck. I shove the toy in with more force than before. 

“Trained isn’t the same as tamed, Basher.” The black gleam in his eye does something to me. Maybe it infuriates me, maybe it arouses me, I don’t know, but I flip my mouthy little husband over so that his back is pressed painfully into the sink and his feet are swinging in the air for purchase until I bend his knees. It’s an uncomfortable position, one that stretches the limits of his flexibility. I spread his legs wider and he shuffles around so that the faucet isn’t pressing into his lungs. 

He lets out a little whimper, though the look on his face makes it clear that he’s gotten exactly what he wanted. I bare my teeth at him. “That’s enough skin care, kitten. I’m ready to play.” 

I never imagined my honeymoon would begin in the loo, pressing my spouse against the sink and mirror of the counter, but here I am, keeping his legs spread and playing with the toy he’s shoved up his hole like a slut. 

I attack his mouth, unleashing my frustration and my remaining aggression from the riot, fuelled onward by the sense of arrogance in his kisses. How can someone give arrogant kisses? Ask Jim. Cocky sod. 

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I break away from his mouth to watch the toy slide in and out of him. “You actually like this?” 

He lets out a pleased hum. “It’s acceptable.” 

“Do you like it better than my cock?” 

His face splits into a wide smile. “You _are_ jealous, aren’t you, Tiger?” 

My pace becomes quicker, shoving the thing in with less care. “Not sure. Do you?” 

He rolls his head languidly, his expression daring me to get rough. “I don’t remember. It’s been a while since I used it.” 

“Well then.” Another deeper, rougher thrust. Jim throws his head back against the mirror, emitting breathy little groans. “Maybe I’ll let you play with yourself for the remainder of the trip.” 

A hand on my cheek draws my gaze back up to his face. Jim’s black eyes are alight with something verging on sadism. “Is that a threat, Basher? You want me to break down and whimper?” Devastation washes over his face, something like terror overtaking the light in his eyes. His voice is high and breathy as he rolls his head back and forth in desperation. “No, Basher, please, please don’t leave me like this. I want your cock. I want it soooo much.” 

I scowl at him, but I’m aroused nonetheless. 

He continues, hips grinding against the toy as much as the awkward angle allows. “I want your cock, thick and hard and hot, spreading me open, stretching me.” 

I grab his neck, not choking him, just snapping him out of his submissive act. His eyes light up again and he beams at me. “Want to watch me come? I can turn on the vibrating function.” 

I want to say something. I don’t know what. I think maybe I’m embarrassed to admit that I am a little jealous of this fucking toy. Especially as Jim seems to be getting off on it, his cock at half-mast. “Don’t,” is all I manage. 

“Don’t? What?” He pretends he doesn’t know, pretends that he’s clueless to the jealousy building inside of me. “Don’t come? Don’t turn it on?” I growl at him. “Be a good boy and use your words.” 

“No toys.” 

“You’re the one playing with it, Tiger.” 

He arches his back when I thrust it in deeper. “You want me to use my words?” My lips crash against his, knocking his head against the mirror again. I bite my way down his neck, violence still hot in my blood. “You don’t come from toys ever again. You don’t play with toys without me. I’m your husband. If you need a fuck, you come to me, kitten.” 

He cackles at the words. He’s got a clearer head than I do, and he’s provoking me, and I’m letting him. So much for being a decent bedmate. 

“Ooh, angry Basher. Are you punishing me?” The submissive veil falls over his face again. “No, Tiger, it’s too deep, it’s too hard, oh, oh, you’re hurting me. I won’t come, I promise. I’ll only ever come with your thick cock inside me.” 

I grit my teeth. “Knock it off.” 

“Why? Because it secretly arouses you?” He bats his eyelashes. “Or maybe you prefer . . .” He throws his head back again, his hips meeting the glide of the toy in my grip. “My hero, protecting me from that horrible baron. My big brave Tiger, protecting his kitten, so fierce and loyal and strong. I wanna feel you inside me, deep and strong and hitting all those sweet spots. You won’t hurt me, will you, Tiger? Oh please, please, make me feel good. I feel so safe with you.” 

I glare at him, frozen, because yes, actually that does it for me. A lot. My mouth is dry and there’s not a lot of blood in my head. Stupidly, I say, “I like it when you call me Tiger.” I hear myself. I know I sound brainless. 

Jim’s grin broadens. “I know you do. You like being Daddy’s trained tiger.” I breathe out his name. He grinds back against the toy, grinning a lascivious grin. “You like protecting me, don’t you?” 

“I do.” I sound like I’m struggling to even be alive. My eyes are locked on his, as if he’s hypnotized me. My free hand traces over the pale, unmarred expanse of his chest, and in response he traces over the wound on my shoulder. The sight of his unharmed flesh thrills me. _Tiger did a good job._ “I wanna keep you safe.” 

“I’m all safe and sound. You’ve done your duty, Colonel.” My animal brain takes over and I grip myself through my pants. “That’s why you got hard when you came in here. You like knowing I’m not hurt because you saved me. What a sweet pet, wanting to be my knight in shining armor.” I didn’t save him, and I know that, but Jesus. . . 

“I do,” I pant. “I do, Jim. It’s stupid, but it’s true.” 

He pouts. “I know, Tiger. Sweet, sentimental soldier.” 

He reaches up to run his fingers through my hair, like I am a pet, and something in me snaps. “I wanna fuck you Jim. I wanna fuck you so bad and I’ll be so much better than this goddamn toy, I always am.” I’m whining. 

His grin darkens. “Tell me you want a reward. I might give you one if you make it pretty.” 

“I--I wanna reward, Daddy,” I growl, low and beast-like. “I wanna fuck you. Please.” 

“Tell me you’ve bled for me.” 

“I have, kitten, I have. I killed for you and I bled for you and I protected you because I’m your good Tiger.” Why these words are coming out of my mouth I have no idea, but they are and I’m hard and he’s hard, and I see his body growing tighter and tighter as his desire climbs. 

“Stop touching yourself,” he says lazily. “Tell me why I should let you fuck me when you’re doing such a wonderful job with the toy.” 

I hadn’t realized I’d been pumping the toy in and out of him this whole time. I look down at his swollen cock, hard and wet for me, then at his slicked entrance, the pucker stretched by the toy. I groan, giving myself another squeeze. 

In response, he spreads his legs wider, letting loose a louder, higher moan. “I could come from this.” His voice breaks. “I could come from the toy, and then I’d be _so_ sensitive internally, there’d be no way I’d let you consummate our marriage.” He laughs. “And I certainly wouldn’t let you masturbate. I guess you’d have to wait until I was ready for another go-round.” 

My blood boils. My fist collides with the glass of the mirror just beside Jim’s head and he doesn’t flinch at all. I don’t realize for a moment that the roar of “no” comes from me. “I can’t wait anymore, kitten. I can’t.” I should be moritified at the desperation in my face, but the idea of waiting any longer is just too much. “Give me my reward. _Please_. I deserve it.” 

Something akin to fear shines in his eyes. Not exactly fear, but something more extreme than excitement. 

Jim palms over my chest, and Christ, I’m purring like a cat, I’m so starved for sex. “Are you going to choke me if I ask?” 

“Whatever you want. Just give me what I want.” 

He rolls his head again like a lizard, contemplating the offer. “Bite my nipples?” 

“Anything.” 

“Take me from behind like one of your prim little whores?” 

“ _Yes._ ” 

Jim shoves me backward, and that predator instinct slips in, and I pin him against the mirror by the neck. “Easy, Tiger,” he purrs, licking his lips. “I was just going to the bed.” He pats my cheek. “Easier on the back, you know.” 

With some difficulty, I ease off of him. I try avoid looking at my reflection, not wanting to see what sort of monster Jim’s just hypnotized out of me. He slides off the counter like liquid and removes the toy before tossing it in the sink. He winks at me, giving my cock a quick squeeze before slinking through the door. 

He lays prone on the bed, and I charge for him. 

“Stay.” 

_FUCK._

Nonetheless, I do. I stop where I stand, ready to explode. 

“Daddy has one last request.” I leans over the bed, fumbling around in one of the bags to retrieve a something I recognize as a cockring. He holds it up. “Don’t give me that face, husband dear. This has nothing to do with your stamina or your girth. It’s for me. Consider it a wedding present.” 

“FINE!” He gets back up off the bed and saunters towards me with the ring and some lubricant. 

The fucking thing makes my lust un-fucking-bearable. I’m fairly certain that I could go to work as a blacksmith right now, my dick is so hard. 

He settles back on the bed, pursing his lips and looking me up and down. “Oh, Sebastian, you are beautiful.” 

I puff out my chest feeling proud and needy and so fucking desperate. 

He licks his lips again. He slides onto his belly, then props himself up on his knees, presenting his tight, hot -- 

I fucking whine again. “Boss, please.” 

A shiver courses through him. His torso expands as he takes a deep breath. “Come on, pussycat.” 

I’m on him. In him. Probably too quickly, too roughly, because he arches his back and grunts, his brows knitting together, but _finally_. Yes, this is what I needed. I pull him up by his shoulders, so that his back is flush against my chest. I force his head to the side so that he has to kiss me, and he moans the prettiest moan against my mouth, almost a whimper. 

_Oh, you wanted a tiger, you’ve got one, kitten._

My free hand finds one of his nipples and pinches hard. He instinctively bucks away, but my grip on him is firm and fast. He’s not going anywhere for a while. 

“Bad form to keep your groom waiting,” I snarl against his cheek. I pinch the other nipple and he shouts. I thrust deeper into him, and _Jesus Christ, it feels so fucking good_. 

“If I’d known it would make you like this, Tiger, I would’ve done it _ages_ ago.” He screams when I pump into him harder. “Good.” His voice has gotten gravelly. “Ooh, good, good boy.” His fingers caress my face and I shudder like a schoolgirl. “Do you like your toy, Tiger?” 

“Feels weird,” I grunt out. “Snug.” I push his face back down into the pillows, dipping his back deeper. “The question is, do you like it?” 

Jim nods, drooling onto the linens beneath him. “Oh I do. You’re thicker like this.” He clenches around me and something like a roar rips out of my chest. I’m pounding blindly into him while he pants and moans and whines and _writhes like prey beneath me_. 

It’s perfect. Brilliant and perfect. My groom presented so pretty, so safe and unscathed, and so ready. And Jesus, he’s so warm against the contrast of the cool sheets. Jim is so deliciously vocal. His gasps and moans are never feminine, and I find I’m grateful for that. There’s always something huskier in his voice when he’s aroused, something that breaks away from the softness that usually lives in his lilt. 

God, he’s gorgeous. And he’s mine. 

_My husband._

I was never supposed to be here. I never thought I’d get married before forty-five. I never thought I’d marry a man. This is exactly where I never knew I wanted to be. 

He meets every thrust, making his pleasure known, and I start to think it might be for my benefit, that he’s still manipulating me. If that’s the case, it’s working. 

“Bite me, Tiger,” he orders, and I obey, sinking my teeth into his shoulder. He lets out an anguished sort of roar then says, “That’s my good boy.” 

“I am. I am your good boy, Jameson.” I’m babbling, grunting nonsense, lost in the heat of his body and the cacophony of our groans and the sound of skin pounding against skin. I lave at the bite mark, savoring the taste of his expensive soaps and creams. “I’m your guard dog, boss. Your monster. Anything you want me to be. I love you, Jim. Jesus, you feel so good. God. Jim. Tell me I’m better than the toy, kitten.” 

He manages a harsh half-laugh. “You are. Thicker and hotter and infinitely more considerate.” 

Pride swells in my chest. Damn right I’m a considerate lover. Although, to be honest, I’m a bit lost in sensation right now. The ring is making everything feel a little different, verging on feeling new, and it doesn’t help that his body feels so smooth and soft and warm beneath me. Or that his body so willingly accepts me. 

Our bodies heat up and wrinkle the sheets on the bed. I fuck into him over and over and over again, savoring his groans and whimpers, following his commands of “harder” “faster” “there.” God, I just want to kiss him, feel his heart pound against mine. 

_Mine._

Jim sounds lost when he reaches for my hand and says, “So close, Tiger.” 

_Fuck. Yes._

I don’t know. It’s stupid. I’m embarrassed about it. But that little bit of reaching out to me. . .if there was ever any doubt that I belonged entirely to Jim Moriarty, that annihilated it. 

_Mine._

_His._

I cover his body with mine, tugging him upwards the tiniest bit to find his mouth. The angle itself is terrible for kissing, but we do it anyway, while I rut into him, our fingers laced together over his head. 

His teeth sink into my lips as he climaxes, his hole spasming around me. He hisses and groans, his form going lax beneath me. I still, cautious of how sensitive he might be. I realize my lip is bleeding when I press a kiss to his temple, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. “You hurt me, kitten,” I chide him, nuzzling against the back of his neck. 

His eyes flutter shut. His hand still covered by mine, he wipes away the blood, sweat and spit from his temple. “Keep going,” he snaps. 

My hips jerk against him just once, and he moans loudly, sounding more like he’s in pain. “You sure, kitten? I can wait a few minutes.” Carefully, I pull out, and he gives me a death glare. 

He rolls over onto his back, one hand gripping my throat. “I put the ring on you for this very purpose. Keep going.” He sounds simultaneously bored and bossy, unfitting for someone who’s gone completely limp (haha) with post-orgasmic reward chemicals. His eyes remain shut, and for all intents and purposes, he appears completely relaxed. 

A few experimental thrusts leaves Jim biting his lip and gasping. 

“Kitten, I’m not sure--” 

His eyes snap open, blind fury glossing them over. “You said anything I wanted.” 

I love it when he’s scary. 

It takes a second to find my voice. “You’re the boss.” 

Oh, Jesus, it feels so good, his body prone and overheated. The line of his shoulders has relaxed. Small spasms ripple through him as my cockhead teases over his prostate. He moans like a whore when I find a sustainably fast and hard pace, swearing a blue streak that would convert the Pope to Hinduism. His internal muscles tense around me. Sweat beads on his forehead. 

He’s not enjoying this. I think. I have no idea. 

“God, fuck, you’re so hard,” he hisses, his nails scraping the sensitive skin of my throat. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“ _Sensitive_.” He grits his teeth, body clenching around me again, in what seems to be an effort to force me out. 

“Want me to stop?” 

He whines again, tossing his head back. “Yes. Don’t you fucking dare, though, or I’ll cut your cock off and have it bronzed.” 

The sight of his pink throat bared makes me groan. “Ooh, talk dirty to me, daddy.” Oh god, am I taunting him? 

He winces again, hands gripping the sheets beneath him. Jesus, he’s pretty like this. I’m a shitty boyfriend. Husband. Husbands shouldn’t hurt their spouses. But, for fuck’s sake, this feels so good. He looks so sinfully fuckable. 

“It’s incredibly relaxing, a second, forced orgasm,” he manages through a series of groans and pants. “Fuck, bite my nipples, Tiger.” 

I’m ashamed to say I’m starting to see the appeal of this. “Say please.” 

Unwilling to do so, the slut reaches up to pinch them himself. He arches upwards off the bed, groaning and cursing. 

Another bizarre surge of jealousy. I pin his wrists over his head, leaning over him so that we’re face to face. “Know what I said about toys? That goes for your hands as well.” 

“Then do what I tell you, Tiger. I don’t just keep you around because you look pretty.” 

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” 

He nearly jolts off the bed with one particularly vicious thrust. “That’s it,” he breathes, as though he’s just seen a vision of heaven. “Do that.” 

Who am I to deny the boss? 

Plus, the pressure of the ring keeps my orgasm at bay, and I’m not overly thrilled about it. Pounding into him like this, though, it feels more tangible, less distant. Testing the limits of my flexibility, I bend down to bite his nipples. A few test nips has him wriggling, his limp cock spreading the remains of his orgasm on my abdomen. 

And then I bite hard, forcing him to scream again. 

“That’s it, purr for me, kitten.” Oh, this is not who I want to be. 

_But it is who I am and a goddamn cockring isn’t gonna stop me from coming even if I have to fuck this little bitch in half._

I’m a killer at heart. 

A killer with a husband and a daughter and a mortgage. 

I maneuver Jim’s legs over my shoulder, thrusting into him at a better, deeper angle, and he fights me. He struggles against me and yet he’s ordering me to keep going, to bite him, ruin him, _that’s it, Tiger, that’s it._

He loves it. I think maybe I do too. 

Goddamn this cockring. I hate it. My thighs are starting to burn and frustration is replacing lust. 

And then his body tightens again, and a pained cry streams from his throat, and he orders me to watch while he shudders from his core and his flaccid cock emits a second, lesser amount of ejaculate. 

The sight of it pushes me over the edge and I come hard inside of him, devouring his cries as he comes for a second time. Because I made him. My Jim. 

In a condescending manner, he pats my cheek. “Okay,” he pants. “That’s enough, Tiger. Off you get.” 

I can’t help but laugh. I kiss the bastard again and roll off of him, removing the ring as quickly as I possibly can. I throw open the window on the other side of the room and hurl it through the sky. I don’t bother to see where it landed. 

Jim is lazing about in the bed, looking the most tranquil I’ve ever seen him. I snuggle up beside, and to my surprise, he rests his head on my chest. Jim’s not particularly affectionate after sex. The sensation of his hair on my chest makes me ache. 

“Can’t believe you threw that out the window. I had that designed especially for you.” He sounds completely zapped. “Gonna hit some poor dog or sheep or something. Land in someone’s fruit stand.” 

“I’m sorry that I got like that. Sort of rough.” 

I feel him huff. “If you’re going to be a sissy about it, you can sleep on the floor. Nothing happens to me that I don’t want to happen.” He settles deeper into the bed, nuzzling his cheek against me. 

I kiss his forehead. “I love you, Jim.” 

He gives me an affected yawn. “I know.” 

“Bitch.” 

“I tolerate you.” 

I take on his accent. “I love you too Basher and I’m going to take your last name.” 

He lets out a little laugh. “I’m _giving_ you my last name. Because it carries more weight than _Moran_.” 

We’re silent for a long while. My abs and glutes are already beginning to ache. I start to doze, revelling in the smell of sex and newly-ruined sheets and Jim’s overpriced shampoo. 

“I was nervous, you know. About the honeymoon.” 

“About leaving Evey?” 

“That you’d get bored.” 

That wakes me up. “That _I’d_ get bored?” 

“You only ended up living with me because of Evelyn. We’ve not spent any extended period of time together without her.” His voice doesn’t match the vulnerability of his words. “And we’ve already decided not to focus on business. What the hell else is there, Basher?” 

I run my fingers through his hair and he preens at the touch. “Not to downplay Evelyn’s impact on our lives or even how much I love her, but you’ve gotta know that my love for her and my love for you are completely separate. I’ll always love Evelyn, but I’m here right now specifically because I love you. I won’t get bored, I promise.” 

He seems content with that answer. “I’m not extending you the same promise. Better keep your kitten entertained.”


	7. . . . and . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haha, fuck summaries. *drinks heavily*
> 
> I don't know, guys. I got really emotional and wrote this at work. Jim gets sentimental and existential during sex. The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MARK GATISS AND ANDREW SCOTT BOTH SAID MORIARTY WAS LONELY SO HERE YA' GO, BITCHES.

Everything about Basher is wrong.

It’s skewed, somehow. Inverted. 

Because kisses from Basher should be possessive and fierce and dominating, and his touches should be gripping and firm, and his words should be forceful and frightening. Instead, he kisses me softly and playfully, like a puppy chasing a butterfly, and he touches me like he’s trying to keep me warm, and he says things that I don’t understand, that I can’t understand, that make my guts feel like butter melting in a hot pan. 

I don’t understand him. I don’t understand how he can be a killer, ferocious and callous and _everything that I need him to be_ , and then he can be so soft. . . 

Sex is so bizarre with Basher, so immeasurable and unhurried and boring and soul-shattering, even when I lead. Even when I top. 

He looks up at me with those killer’s eyes so full of warmth and life and gentleness, and what the hell is this Basher? Where’s the glint of victory in your eyes? Where’s the terror? Where have you stashed the appropriate responses for having sex with the Professor of the Underground? 

“You’re beautiful, Jim.” And he says it with such sincerity! His voice is just dripping with gentleness and honesty and Jesus Christ, what am I supposed to do with that? 

And his hands amble up my chest, slow and firm, just enjoying the feel of warm skin against skin, and he smiles at me like an idiot. Like a heathen child smiles up at the sun. It’s unbearable. 

He pulls me down for another kiss, still so slow and intentional. His hands slide up my back and hold me against him, the way someone might hold onto a floatation device on a day at the lake. His hips rut up against mine, his erection against mine, and still there’s no urgency. 

“I love you, kitten.” And he nuzzles into my neck, and it’s _just. so. much._

Both of his hands cup my face, and that’s the first thing that’s felt right about this--rough, calloused skin, a strong grasp--and it’s solely to bring me in for another kiss. Another tender touch of his tongue against mine. And he chuckles softly to himself, not at me, not at what’s happening. 

And the words come out, even if I don’t mean them, “I love you, Tiger,” and I can’t justify their existence, and I can’t justify mine, and everything hurts, and I hate that I spiral into this every fucking time we fuck. 

“I love you.” He says it again, hands trailing down to my hips, and the words dissolve into my skin and make the entirety of my being blush. 

“You’ve said.” 

He chuckles again. “I know but you like hearing it.” 

“No I don’t.” Is that a lie? 

“Yeah, you do.” 

And he lets me take him, face to face this time, insisting on kisses and touches, like this is some sort of bonding experience and not just a means of satisfying instinct. And every goddamned time we do this, I can’t remember who I want to be, only who I am. 

Basher’s seen all of me, every aspect, every shade, and by all means, I should want him dead. I do want him dead. _Except that's a lie_. But he’s stayed, and he didn’t laugh, and he’s seen my weaknesses and it’s okay, and the thought of his absence is infinitely more painful than his presence. 

Everything about Basher makes me feel like a kid looking up at the sky, astounded by the vastness of time and space, just thinking how beautiful the stars are, not what they’re made of; everything about Basher makes me oblivious to the Earth speeding through eternity, makes me forget that we’re completely out of control, at the mercy of indifference. Everything about Basher makes me feel safe and ignorant against the reality of an unfeeling universe. 

And he cries out, and _goddammit, no, please, I’m sorry, Tiger_ , because do I actually care that this might hurt him? Because even if it _does_ , he’ll come back. I think? Before I can stop myself, I’m shushing him, whispering something soft against the skin of his chest, still, steady inside of him. 

“You’re so big, kitten,” he manages. And he’s an idiot, because I’m just over average, but he doesn’t know any better. He exhales, long and loud and slow. “I’m okay.” 

And he licks at my neck, my jawline, urging me to keep going, but how can I? How can I continue any of this? How can I take my next breath when I’m so fucking baffled by everything that is Sebastian Moran? 

“Bash?” And I don’t know who said that. 

And he shushes _me_ this time, and he kisses me while I violate him. And I’m angry that it’s only in the last few years that I’ve been aware of how absolutely devastating and painful love can be. I hate this feeling. I wish I’d found it sooner. 

He kisses me and every time I fall further away from _what? _and my veins crack through my skin, and I am exposed and vulnerable, and I don’t know how to continue.__

__And I’m safe. And I’ve never been here before._ _

__And I’m saying his name, and fuck, I want him to come. I want him to come from this. I fist his cock and his back arches, but he’s still not there, because how can he be? Biologically, chemically, he doesn’t want _me_. _ _

__Except he does? Because he’s here, and he keeps being here._ _

__I want to be apprehensive because that’s a series of neurotransmitters and chemicals that I understand. What I don’t understand is why in the world I feel safe in the arms of _anyone_ , especially an assassin. Why the human brain is even wired to register safety and comfort when in reality, there’s no reason to ever feel safe or comfortable. _ _

__“Please, Tiger? Is this enough? Can you--?”_ _

__And I can’t ask the question in it’s entirety because it’s just too much._ _

__That damnably warm laugh. Those inviting, safe, piercing, healing eyes. “No rush, kitten.” And more kisses. “We’ll get there.”_ _

___We._ Plural. Because it’s plural now. _ _

__Because we’re plural now._ _

__He’s gotten under my skin, into my lungs, and if he’s gone, will I ever remember how to breathe alone?_ _

__There’s so much terror in safety._ _

__Everything about Basher is wrong. And everything about Basher feels like a newly-pieced-together puzzle._ _

__And everything about him feels warm and alive and it’s almost like everything before him was wrong, and he’s the only thing that’s right._ _

__And then . . ._ _

__“I love you, Sebastian.”_ _

__“I love you too, Jim.” And he means it, he always means it!_ _

__And I can’t avoid climax, and it’s painful in the way that it’s painful when cold hands heat up too quickly, and it’s like being shocked back to life, and it’s terrible and wonderful, and. . ._ _

__Everything about Basher is indescribable, because he exists outside of expectations and patterns. And he’s mine, and he’s safe, and I’m his and I’m safe. Reality is tinted by this man, and what once seemed so clear is faded in his shadow._ _

__And maybe we can conquer the chaos of the universe because what once was singular is plural, and maybe that’s enough._ _

__In moments like these, the entirety of reality ceases to exist and everything about Basher is the only everything._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim has run-on thoughts.


	8. Gratuitous Nightmare and Comfort Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has a nightmare and doesn't know how to ask for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm avoiding scenes of underage!Jim with Magnussen for moral reasons. Like, that seems weird, because I write non-con stuff sometimes, and yeah, sometimes that's a kink for me, and I think the age of consent in Denmark is, like, fifteen or something, and poor fucked up Jim doesn't have any sense of how wrong what was done to him is, BUT I'm drawing the line there. 
> 
> So, while Mags and Jim's relationship began when he was too young, this scene/nightmare take place when Jim is in early twenties.
> 
> TW for slurs and some sexual violence. And maybe some dubious consent.

_1997_

_His arms hang limply above him, purely for the aesthetic it provides.  His shoulders have been dislocated, so he couldn't move them if he tried.  His fingertips are starting to go numb, and endorphins are flooding his body, so the agony in his shoulders is almost bearable now._

_Magnussen is speaking to him in a soft voice, but he can't make out the words over his own screaming into the gag._

_He whites out for a second or two.  He's been slapped, he realizes.  The heat and ache in his cheek meld with the stabbing pain in his shoulders, the burning in his chest from the beating he'd taken earlier.  His head throbs and his eyes sting.  He couldn't safeword if he wanted to.  Not that they'd agreed on one.  Or even discussed it._

_He's unhooked, and his arms falls gracelessly to his side.  New elements of pain rush through him._

_Magnussen pins his victim's face to the cold wooden floor with his boot.  No, not victim.  Never victim.  Lover._

_He lifts his hips, positioning him for the taking._

_"No," the lover mumbles through the gag.  "Please."_

_And no attention is paid, of course, because it never is, because this is what he came for.  What he keeps coming for.  The boot leaves his face and he stays in place simply because he always does when it gets to this point._

_There's plenty of lubrication applied to the latex-ed cock, but no preparation and the victim--the lover--shrieks as he's split apart._

I'm sitting up before my eyes open, before I can even register that it was a dream.  Or rather a memory played out during sleep.  Except it's incorrect.  

It's a happy memory, one I return to when Basher's gentle caresses and kisses can't slake my lust, when the day-to-day mediocrity of life gets to be too much, when I just need something more.  And yet, in this dream . . . I was--what's the word?  Afraid?  Resistant?  Unwilling?

That wasn't how it happened.  

That's  _never_ how it happened.  

My brain is overexerting itself, it would seem.  Perhaps because Basher was so boring tonight.  Just _frot, frot, frot,_ and some soft words.  I needed the stimulation and my brain provided, but it decided to toss in an extra element, thus the fear.  Ruining what should have been a pleasant dream, turning it into a nightmare.

Maybe?

Maybe that is how it happened.  Maybe I didn't--

That's absurd.  I'm never the victim.  Since I was twelve, I've never been in any position I didn't want to be in.  No one gets to me.  Nothing happens that I don't permit.  

My eyes adjust to the darkness and I can make out Basher's bulky silhouette, turned on his side, facing away from me.  I start to reach for him, but I don't know why, I didn't explicitly tell my hand or my arm to do that, and so I retreat.  I realize I'm shaking.  My hand and my arm may as well be made of lead because I can't keep it up without tremendous exertion.  

My heart is racing, as well.  The way it races when I think something might be wrong with my daughter.  With great effort, I wipe my temple.  Cold sweat against clammy skin.  

For reasons I can't pinpoint, a scream is building at the back of my throat.  

_Why did I remember it wrong?  Why did I dream it wrong?_

_That's not how it happened._

Everything was right except for the  _emotion_.  I wasn't afraid in reality. Only in the dream was I frightened.

I reach for Basher once more, and again I don't know why.  My arm is faster this time, like it's trying to reach him before my brain shuts it down.  He's warm and solid against my palm, and I press further because  _I need it._

He stirs, taking what seems like an eternity to emerge from sleep.  He rolls onto his back and rubs his eyes.  "Jim?" 

I don't answer.  He sits up to, urgency changing his shape.  "Jim?  You okay?"

I freeze.  I order myself not to scream, to shake away whatever made-up feelings the dream left behind.  I feel like the remains of a wild-fire, just scorched Earth and devastation and silence.  _I will not scream_.   _Dreams are not real._    _That wasn't reality.  That wasn't real._

I'll be damned if I tell him I'm scared.  Fear's not real, is it?  It's just chemicals, a biological impulse to protect yourself--

I can't breathe.  I can't breathe because if I do it will be too loud and it will make everything real.  He reaches for me and I don't want to be touched for the same reason.  

If he touches me, it means I'm real, that this fear is real, that I reached for him because I was frightened.  If he touches me, someone else will know that tremors are washing over me, that I'm cold and clammy, that something got to me, something that wasn't even real. 

"I have a headache."

He clucks his tongue in sympathy.  The form of him relaxes with the confirmation that it's not serious.  "I'm sorry, kitten."

_Kitten_.  Not  _slut,_ not  _bitch_ , not _faggot_.   _Kitten._

Something sucks the air out of the room.  I couldn't breathe if I wanted to. 

"Rub my neck." It's an order.  A facade.  A distraction so he won't see how fucking terrified I am. 

He chuckles, sleep still thick in his mouth.  He pulls me down to rest on his chest and massages the tight bundles of tendons and skin and muscle and knot.  

I don't want to be touched because it makes me real.

I need to be touched because Basher is real and the dream wasn't.  I need the confirmation, the warmth of another person to confirm that the dream wasn't real--that the fear wasn't real.  He kisses my forehead and I think I might die.  I might be suffocating under the weight of the chemicals and neurotransmitters and responses coursing through me.  

I don't want to be touched.  I don't want to validate the terror by acknowledging it.  I need to be touched and I don't have a real reason for it.  Except that it feels better.  It takes the edge off.  It calls the fear out into the light, and maybe it's not so scary after all.  Maybe?

The dream was wrong.  I wasn't afraid.  It wasn't real.  But this is real.  Basher is real. 

The fear melts away as do it's effects on my body and soon I can fully feel Basher's calloused fingers working at a knot in my neck, gentle and probing and unskilled and sleepy.  I can feel his too-short nails scraping against my skin. 

I don't cuddle often, but for the moment I'm clinging to Basher.  Clinging to the reality of him, which is the soft burbling sounds his insides make, the sound of his heart beating, the sound of his breath.  I slide my hand beneath his t-shirt, the warmth of his skin easing any anxiety I have that I'm weak, that I'm a victim. 

Through his doze, he kisses my forehead again.  Poor stupid Basher thinks I have a headache.  

"Sorry, kitten, s'all I got," he mumbles as his hand stops massaging.  It remains on my neck, though.  My nerves stand on end.  I don't want to be touched.  

I squeeze him to me, tight, nuzzling my cheek against his chest.  He's already asleep again.  I need to be touched.  I cover his hand on my neck with my hand, to ensure it stays there in his sleep.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost think this didn't happen. That this is an AU to my fic. Jim is too soft, too vulnerable. 
> 
> It's not real.


End file.
